


To love what is mortal

by nightingayles, siDEADde



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon What's Canon?, Crossover, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Pining, Templar Trevelyan, anti-mage inquisitor, gonna have to suspend some of y'all's disbelief, implied morriana, implied morrigan/leliana, oblivious idiots, reluctant allies, sylvaina
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23947294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightingayles/pseuds/nightingayles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/siDEADde/pseuds/siDEADde
Summary: “Don’t you want to go home?” Sylvanas wheedles, the tone so foreign in that voice. Jaina has whiplash from trying to follow and match the elf’s mood. “Back to where you were the most powerful mage in the world, beloved by all -- that includes some of my faction. Champion of peace, Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras… not a broken little girl in the snow?”
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner
Comments: 325
Kudos: 457





	1. The Tear

**Author's Note:**

> _To live in this world_
> 
> _you must be able  
>  to do three things:  
> to love what is mortal;  
> to hold it_  
>  _against your bones knowing  
>  your own life depends on it;  
> and, when the time comes to let it  
> go,  
> to let it go._  
> -Mary Oliver

# Prologue

  
  


_Oh Belore no, not again._

A portal. 

The mighty Sylvanas Windrunner, the Dark Lady, the Banshee Queen taken down by a _fucking_ portal. She completely underestimated that bitch, and now she was surely hurtling her way into the Molten Core or the Twisting Nether to plunge into a pit of felfire. The joke’s on Proudmoore though, because Sylvanas made sure she grabbed that fucking staff as she stumbled back, and the silly little mage didn’t think to let go. Guess it was a fair trade. 

Teleporting didn’t usually last this long, and the disorienting spin she normally attributed to teleportation felt off. It crescendoed into pain. Actual pain. A soul-shredding pain that dragged up memories of Arthas and Frostmourne. _Northrend?!_ She gasped on reflex, fingers clutching against the scar. Frantic thoughts came unbidden.

_He cannot be back. He’s dead. I have destroyed the helm. This cannot be, THIS CANNOT BE._

The pain peaked and she screamed as everything went black.

* * *

  
  


It was a good idea... 

_...in theory._

Call up a portal (it doesn’t even have to be to anywhere, all the better if she’s ripped to shreds in the teleportation.) 

Push the bitch into it. 

Nothing else had seemed to work, and if it had, Jaina would have been able to add unanchored portals to her arsenal of weapons. She’d needed to act quickly, before Sylvanas moved back from the frontline and let her grunts take all the damage. Jaina had also needed the Warchief to remain corporeal, because pushing at deadly tendrilled mist was ineffective and suicidal. There had been no time to consult with Anduin about what she was going to do, no time to work out an exit strategy if everything went sideways. The opportunity had presented itself, so Jaina went for it. 

Blink to the undead elf. 

Rip a portal into the air behind her.

Shove with staff.

But, of course she didn’t account for Sylvanas’s lightning reflexes, and she stupidly didn’t just let go of the staff when she’d seen Sylvanas’s hand close around it and yank her forward. She’d tried to blink backwards, still holding the staff, but something had gone wrong. A spell that usually just left her a little dizzy, instead felt like it was turning her inside out. She tried to call up a shield around herself but the pain increased tenfold, and she couldn’t feel her magic. A scream echoed in her mind, but it wasn’t hers. The pressure from the torn portal prevented her from drawing enough breath to even whisper. 

_If Sylvanas is screaming, I’m fucked._

Her eyes rolled back into her head as she surrendered to the pain and let go.

* * *

* * *

It’s the stomach turning pain in her arm and shoulder that rouse her in the cold darkness. She tries to lever herself up, but the flash of pain roils her stomach and she just barely manages to stop from retching. Jaina is sure her wrist is broken and the fact that she can’t lift her arm to confirm points to a dislocated shoulder on the same side. There is also a niggling sense of unease that she can’t put her finger on. She must get her bearings. If she survived whatever happened in that portal, there’s no doubt that Sylvanas did as well. _My staff_. She groans softly, tears springing to her eyes as she tries to roll to her left to look around.

“Are you looking for this, Proudmoore?” 

Jaina gasps at the familiar voice--nasally, double-toned, and colored with disdain. She tries to pull on her magic to strike out against its owner, but what is there where her magic should be, doesn’t respond. She feels hollow; both her magic, and any hope she had of getting rid of Sylvanas once and for all, are gone. Between the pain of her injuries and hopelessness she feels, it would be a mercy to end it now. 

_As if Sylvanas Windrunner knows mercy._

Her eyes sag shut and she resigns herself to whatever cruel end Sylvanas has for her. She turns her head, resting her cheek against the frozen ground, and waits for the bite of an arrow in her back.

“And Archmage Jaina Proudmoore, Lord Admiral, former leader of the Kirin-Tor goes down without a fight.” Jaina grits her teeth at the haughtiness, wanting nothing more than to punch that ever-present sneer off of the Warchief’s face. “I’m disappointed. After that clever stunt with the portal, I would have guessed you’d have more tricks up your sleeve.”

“How about you cut the shit, Banshee, and just get it over with.” She bites out, setting her teeth against another wave of pain. The whimper escapes before she can stop it and she’s angry for showing any more weakness in front of Sylvanas. 

“Tempting, little mage, but a touch of challenge makes the hunt - makes the battle - more interesting.” Jaina can hear the smirk coloring the other woman’s words. “I like my opponents to have a little fight or flight left in them.” The slight crunch of snow behind her signals Sylvanas’s approach and despite her bravado, Jaina’s heart starts racing. The tip of a clawed gauntlet lightly traces her hairline behind her ear and she flinches; the deep breath she tried to take cuts off in a squeak of pain. “And you have neither.”

“Do not toy with me, Sylvanas. I am not completely toothless.” But the growled warning is all Jaina can do, and she flushes in frustration and shame. Sylvanas doesn’t deign to respond. “Anduin, Genn, my mother, Tyrande... they’ll come for me, dead or alive. ”

Sylvanas tsks behind her, working at something in the dark, “Undead even, Proudmoore? Would they come running then?” 

“ _You wouldn’t dare_!” 

“I would, but that’s neither here nor there at this moment.” Buckles catch and jingle behind her, and she hears Sylvanas lightly place something in the snow. “I’ve noticed you’ve not cast a single spell since you’ve woke. At first I thought it was because your lead casting arm was injured, but now you’ve confirmed my suspicions.” The double voice drops to a whisper as she crouches closer, the whisper changing to a breathy laugh when Jaina tenses. “You can’t cast here, can you, Daughter of the Sea?”

Jaina breathes deeply and counts to ten. She will not let her temper get the best of her. She will not let the mercurial elf have the satisfaction of her anger. “Kill me or leave me be. Enough of your games.”

“Do you want to know why, hmm?” Sylvanas almost purrs, just like the cat she is playing to Jaina’s trapped mouse. “Because we’re not in Azeroth anymore. The magic here is muted, softer. It tastes different. I don’t need Tyrande to tell me that Elune isn’t in this moon. I don’t know what you did, or how you did it, but _you_ did it. So no, I’m not going to kill you, yet.”

“Yet?!” Jaina huffs out. _Gods, this woman is intolerable._ “Why wait, truly? The moment I can cast anything, I’ll not make the same mistake.” She hears a soft chuckle behind her, closer than she’d like.

“Don’t you want to go home?” Sylvanas wheedles, the tone so foreign in that voice. Jaina has whiplash from trying to follow and match the elf’s mood. “Back to where you were the most powerful mage in the world, beloved by all -- that includes some of my faction. Champion of peace, Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras… not a broken little girl in the snow?” More jingling buckles, and Jaina realizes Sylvanas is taking off pieces of her armor. “Don’t you want to see your mother again, chatter over tea with my simpering sister?”

“What are you doing?” Jaina doesn’t bother to answer the question, instead tries to turn her head to look back at the elf. She stops as the pain leaves her gasping.

“I need _your abilities_ , little mage,” Sylvanas’s knees drop down to press lightly into her back, “to bring us back home...and you need _me_ to fix you so you can do that. Hold still, so I can set your wrist.” Being this close to Sylvanas was like being trapped in a vacuum, her unnatural stillness making it hard to breathe.

“No. Don’t touch me.” She can feel Sylvanas’s eyes roll in the exasperated sigh. 

“Proudmoore,” The bored drawl drips with condescension, “You’re being unreasonable. If you don’t let me help you, you’ll just die here in the snow. Then I’ll raise you and get what I need that way.”

“ _If_ you can raise me here.”

“I’m willing and able to wait and see.”

 _Insufferable bitch._ Her wrist throbs enough to keep her aware; dying here would be slow and she cannot afford to gamble on Sylvanas’s powers. She’d be too powerful an arrow in the Banshee Queen’s quiver should Sylvanas make it back to Azeroth with Jaina as her thrall.

“Fine, do it then.” Jaina closes her eyes and braces herself for the feel of Sylvanas’s hands upon her. 

“This is going to hurt.” 

“Then start with my shoulder.”

“That is going to hurt as well.”

Jaina just sighs. It seems everything will be a battle between them. It’s exhausting. “It will be quicker and less painful than the wrist. Plus, I would be more comfortable being able to move my arm.”

“As you wish.” Sylvanas hesitates a moment before leaning closer, her thighs pressed perpendicular to Jaina’s back, “I would not choose to take off my gloves, but I will need to feel for the bones in your wrist. You are lucky it isn’t compound.”

Sylvanas’s gloved fingers are rough against her collarbone as they unbuckle her pauldron and peel it away with far more care than Jaina thought possible. She blushes, the touch strangely gentle and compassionate from a woman not known to be either. Jaina feels the other woman jostle slightly behind her as she works off her gloves. She screws her eyes shut at the flash of movement in her peripheral vision and is surprised at the touch of leather against her lips. 

“Here, bite.” The elf’s voice is unexpectedly gentle as she presses the soft leather to Jaina’s mouth, but it quickly sharpens back to her regular snide tone. “I don’t know how much danger we’re in here, so if you can keep from screaming....” Jaina’s head spins with the elf’s shifts in tone. 

She has the feeling that Sylvanas wanted to say more, to needle her again, but there’s not enough fight in the mage to draw it out of her. She simply nods and bites hard into the offered glove, face already creased in anticipation of the pain. Her eyes go wide when Sylvanas swings one leg over to straddle her hip and she jerks her head sharply to look up into the smug, red glow.

“I have to get up under your shoulder if you want me to reduce it before I set your wrist.” Sylvanas shrugs and settles her weight against Jaina’s hip. “This is why I offered to set the wrist first. Once you passed out from that, you wouldn’t have known how close I would have to get to fix this.” She gestures toward the dislocation. 

Jaina says nothing, just sets her jaw and turns to look straight ahead once more, hoping Sylvanas takes the hint. All the shoulder reductions she’d seen had the healer’s foot planted in the armpit while they pulled back on the arm. Her displaced wrist complicates things. Sylvanas leans down against her body, wiggling carefully under the affected arm. Her left arm curls up around Jaina’s back, open hand resting gently against the dislocated shoulder. Sylvanas’s right arm reaches across her chest and pushes between the frozen ground and her side in a mockery of an embrace. Their proximity is even more unnerving than before; Jaina’s heart thunders so loudly in her chest she’s sure Sylvanas can hear it. Her thought is confirmed when a puff of laughter stirs the hair at her temple and soft, cold lips move against her ear.

“Calm down, little mage. I promise I won’t bite--though that would be assuredly more pleasant than what I’m going to have to do here.”

Sylvanas chuckles again at the goosebumps that erupt and Jaina rolls her eyes and growls in protest. If anyone could see the position they are in, they’d think them lovers. The low heat that pools in Jaina’s stomach is as confounding as the way Sylvanas seems to nuzzle into the nape of her neck. 

_What the everloving fuck?_ Before Jaina can spit out the glove and demand to know what the hell is happening, Sylvanas lunges forward with her shoulder while simultaneously pulling down with the arm looped over Jaina’s. The flash of pain shoots stars in front of her eyes as the joint pops back into place. Her cry is muffled by the glove clenched in her teeth and it tapers to quiet weeping; the pain in her wrist increasing ten-fold from the jostling of the reduction. 

She cannot stop the tears that stream down her face or control her breathing. She pants between whimpers, ashamed and angry at herself that she cannot be more stoic. Sylvanas carefully moves out from under her arm and slides from her hip to sit in the curve of Jaina’s body, her hand on Jaina’s arm above the injured wrist. Without speaking, Sylvanas reaches out to take the glove from her mouth and to wipe the tears from Jaina’s cheeks, as if to save her from the indignity. The compassion in her face slips away when Jaina’s eyes meet hers in surprise.

“The worst is yet to come.” Sylvanas speaks quietly, but without mocking. “I have no way to distract you while I do this either. You’re strong, so I fear you’ll be conscious longer than you’ll be able to control your screaming. Put your head in my lap.”

“What? No.” Jaina sniffs and hitches in a breath to hold, anything to regain control of a situation that was spiralling beyond. “Just set it.” 

“We cannot afford to be found until you’re stabilized and I can get all my armor back on. Hate me all you want, rage at me after, but see that I speak truth here.” Sylvanas unclasps her cloak and balls it up, setting it on her crossed legs. Jaina locks eyes with her, jaw set in anger and pain, but it’s obvious that Sylvanas will give no quarter. With Sylvanas’s help, she bends closer, slipping her good arm around the elf’s waist and burying her face into the cloak. Jaina hates that Sylvanas is right, hates that the other woman can see her so weak and needy, and absolutely loathes the fact that obviously one of the things she has always thought about the Warchief has been wrong. Jaina despises being wrong. Sylvanas has not lost her empathy. 

Sylvanas’s voice cuts into her thoughts. “Try to hold your upper arm against your side to avoid straining that shoulder. I’ll bind everything up once I set this.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Jaina hates how her voice waivers, how she involuntarily tightens the arm around Sylvanas’s waist, how suddenly desperate she is for comfort, because she is so tired of hurting… because she’s just so _tired_. Sylvanas doesn’t respond. 

Both women gasp at the first touch of bare skin to bare skin. Her eyes go wide at the bolt of pleasure, her magic flooding back, but then it’s eclipsed by pain, and Jaina’s gasp drops into a steady groaning as the elf takes her wrist into her hands. She knows Sylvanas is murmuring something but she cannot focus on her words. Cold fingers gently slide across her skin, sussing out the displacement and what will need to be shifted. Then the chilled grip adjusts, thumbs aligning along the outside of the wrist. Another murmur, and white-hot pain explodes from her arm. Jaina’s groans rise and she shrieks into the balled cloak. Sylvanas’s knees raise to push the her face firmly against the thick material and her abdomen, further muffling the screams that Jaina can no longer hold inside. She feels the bones grind together once, twice, and on the third time, her mind finally shuts down, a blessing, as she slips into unconsciousness.  
  


s§s

  
  


Green haze greets her when she opens her eyes. She rubs them and shakes her head to try to clear it, and as she drops her arms she realizes there was no pain accompanying the movement. Her wrist is unsplinted. The haze is still there, as are several floating rock formations, and what might be vaguely humanoid forms of light.

 _Now where the fuck am I?_ Is it possible that this whole mess is just one of her regularly scheduled nightmares? If so, she’s definitely going to reconsider adding portals to her battlemagic. Better to run the Banshee Queen through with icebolts, or get her onto the ocean and sink her damnable ship...just steer clear of portals. 

As she leans forward, brushing off her skirts, the click and clash of sliding rock shoots her to her feet. A wave of déjà vu washes over her as she twists to look behind her. _Where’s my staff?_

“Sylvanas?”

She waits, but no response. A tiny trickle of fear settles cold in her belly at another clatter of rocks and the distinct feeling of eyes on her. 

“Sylvanas, if you’re going to kill me, just come out and do it.” She tries reaching her magic, sifting through whatever it is filling that space to find something useful. Some of what she touches feels familiar, cool and sharp-edged, but nothing heeds her call. Hand to hand then; she squares up, hoping she’ll be able to do a little damage before taking a dagger somewhere in her person.

“I do not know who this ‘Sylvanas’ may be, but I may assist you if you wish, _da’len_.” 

The voice is unfamiliar, definitely not Sylvanas’s double-toned drawl and possibly not belonging to a woman. Jaina squints her eyes to peer through the green gloom at the silhouette of a person, somewhat taller than her, approaching slowly. She keeps her stance ready though the other carries a staff and seems far more capable than her at manipulating whatever magics are in this land. She’ll not stand a chance if they decide to attack. She wills her voice steady, and responds with a confidence she does not feel.

“Identify yourself.”

The silhouette stops moving and tilts its head slightly, “Peace, _da’len_. I do not wish you harm.”

“Who are you?” Her inflection rises and she silently curses herself for showing her uncertainty. “Are you Horde?”

The figure is close enough now for Jaina to see that he is undoubtedly male, and possibly an elf, though his ears are shorter than any elf she’s ever met. _Half-elf perhaps_. His expression is guarded but not aggressive, and her question seems to confuse him more than antagonize. 

“What is this… ‘Horde’?” 

If possible, she stiffens even more as the Banshee’s words come flooding back into her memory. _We’re not in Azeroth anymore._

“It’s… forget I asked.”

The half-elf hums, clearly not convinced, but he blissfully says nothing. “I am Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

“Jaina.” 

“ _Andaran atishan,_ Jaina.” 

“Uh- to you, as well,” Jaina stands awkwardly with her arms down at her sides, at a rare loss for words. Solas looks at her expectantly. “So, I don’t know where I am.”

“We are in the Fade. And as far as I can tell, you are no spirit or demon, so you must be dreaming.” 

_Everything? All of this is a dream?_ “Well, that’s a comfort.” Her sigh of relief almost echoes in the sickly light, the sound making her pensive. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a dream this vivid before...”

“You are dreaming, yes, but not in the way you believe. Mages enter the Fade when they Dream.” 

“So I’m asleep at the moment?” 

“Unless you are able to Dream while conscious, then yes, you are.” Solas’s brow furrows as he frowns. “Forgive my forwardness, but you are remarkably… _uninformed_ in the way of magi. Did you not come from a Circle?”

“A Circle?” 

Solas scrutinizes her with an intensity that makes uneasiness curl in her gut. “Where are you _really_ from, Lady Jaina?” 

“What does it matter?”

“You speak of strange things. You do not know what the Fade is, despite it having been bleeding into reality for the past few months through the Breach.”

“I… you’re right. I’m not from wherever this place is. I’m from a planet called Azeroth.” Jaina shakes her head trying to remember how this whole shitstorm started. “We’re locked in endless war there. Two factions, the Alliance and the Horde, cannot settle their differences except with blood and misery. They refuse to even try anything else.” 

Solas inclines his head towards her as she continues. She can see the spark of curiosity and interest glimmer in his eyes. “I tried to eliminate the Horde Warchief by pushing her through an unanchored portal. She managed to pull me in with her and then I woke up with a broken wrist and the Warchief helping me… and Sylvanas Windrunner doesn’t help anyone, much less an Alliance official. I cannot wield my magic, nothing… not even simple magelight.” 

Solas seems to take a moment to process everything Jaina had said. “Fascinating. I wonder how you came to be here, and if the Breach has anything to do with it,” he muses, then shakes his head, expression souring. “Funny enough, it is fortunate that you aren’t able to spellcast. I’m afraid it’s a dangerous time to be a mage in Thedas right now. The Herald may be missing, but her Commander yet lives.”

“Herald? Breach?”

“The tear in the Veil that lingered in the sky above Haven before it was attacked. The Herald had just sealed it.” 

“Your sky was torn? The sky in Azeroth is too. The Warchief destroyed the Helm of Domination, and it caused an explosion of energy that ripped a hole in the sky above Icecrown.” 

His eyes jump to hers. “This Warchief… I would like to meet her.”

“Hah,” Jaina snorts, “I think otherwise.”

“If she is sleeping right now she may be in the Fade as well.” Solas presses, despite her comment.

“She doesn’t sleep. She’s undead.” Jaina looks pointedly at him. “And she’d kill you as soon as look at you. The only reason I’m still alive is because she thinks I can get us back to Azeroth.”

Solas tilts his head again. “She is undead? And yet she keeps her mind?”

“Yes.” Jaina draws out the word, internally debating whether the Banshee Queen kept Sylvanas’s mind.

“It’s a long story. One that, if you do happen to meet her, I recommend you don’t ask about.” Jaina sighs, “She wasn’t always cruel and heartless but I don’t think there’s any of that Sylvanas left.” 

_It certainly wasn’t the Banshee Queen who wiped the tears from your face and cradled your head in her lap._

“The Commander will have you executed if you are found in Thedas. A mage without a Circle is an apostate, a crime punishable by death, according to the Herald. _I_ fail to see how she fails to see that _all_ mages are now apostates and her views are clearly outdated.” Solas scowls and shakes his head, obviously in disagreement with whomever the Herald is, “So this Warchief’s protection would be a boon for you, and yours for her as they will most definitely see her as an abomination.” 

“I don’t know what I can offer her as far as protection. I can’t manipulate this magic.” Jaina shrugs, “They’d just kill her while I watched and then turn on me.”

“They don’t know you can’t cast spells.” He looks at her thoughtfully, “She could be your magic. If she were ‘bound’ to you...”

Jaina bursts into laughter. “If she were what?! Sylvanas would never agree to be bound to me for anything.”

“Obviously, she wouldn’t truly be bound. She would just have to pretend. Is this not something she would do?” The corners of his lips twitch, and Jaina sees the sparkle of amusement in his eyes as Jaina shakes her head vigorously.

He pauses, as if listening for something, then turns pensive. “In the waking world, the survivors of Haven and the remaining part of the Inquisition are headed to _Tarasyl’an Tel’as_. We’re travelling due north of Haven, along the Frostback Mountains. Can you remember anything about where you were when you woke?”

“Not really.” Jaina shakes her head slowly, “It was dark. There was snow and we were under trees -- pine trees. Honestly, I was more concerned about the pain and the fact that a murderous undead elf that I’d tried to kill was with me.”

“An elf you say?” Solas’s eyebrows rise. “Now I have to meet her.” He stills again, then turns abruptly, walking back the way he had come. Right before he disappears behind a rock he stops. “I know you cannot cast any spells, but can you feel our magic, Jaina?”

She nods.

“Keep feeling it. I will call you to us. Remember you’re not safe alone, neither of you. Travel together, convince her to play the part.” 

When Jaina goes to argue, she sees he’s already gone. So she sits and waits to wake up, practicing what she’ll say to convince the Warchief to pretend to be her slave.


	2. The Trek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They don't know where they're going but they can't stay here!

She sits perched on a branch halfway up a large spruce overlooking the small clearing and silently bemoans the loss of her cloak. She doesn’t need it for warmth, but it keeps the sticky sap off of her skin and armor. It’s not that she can’t feel the cold, it’s just that it doesn’t bother her. Despite the patches of snow and biting wind, she’s perfectly comfortable. 

Being undead has its advantages.

Not needing to breathe allowed her to remain conscious during their entire tumble through space and possibly time. It permitted her to land in this foreign world in relative safety, a few minor cuts and a cracked rib or two that were easily fixed with the life essence of a bizarre, furless, rabbit-eared animal.

Being undead also has its disadvantages.

The pain that had clawed at her was something she hadn’t experienced in a long time and would prefer to forego in the future. She’s not used to pain anymore, at least not pain like that. She wasn’t allowed the luxury of unconsciousness, like the human, but then again, the pain was worth the awareness she currently has. 

They aren’t in Azeroth any longer. 

The magic here is different. It’s like drinking brackish water: unpleasant but serves its purpose. Another advantage of being a banshee, she can just keep draining those strange little animals and go without the arcane, even though arcane energy tastes better. If this magic is brackish water, life essence from animals is like water through goblin plumbing. Arcane energy though, arcane is like fine wine. 

A whimper cuts into her thoughts and she glances down at the human curled on what’s left of her purple cloak under a scraggly pine. Sylvanas had piled snow to make a windbreak and wrapped the woman’s own cloak around her . Jaina’s upper arm is bound to her body with strips of purple cloth, and her wrist is splinted in one of Sylvanas’s bracers packed with more pieces of her ruined cloak to make it tight. 

She watches Jaina cringe then cry out, muttering to whatever walks her dreams. This is far better than when they had first crashed to the ground here. Jaina’s pained moans and cries had almost made Sylvanas feel sorry for her. 

Almost.

A gust of wind whistles through the pines and pulls her attention up along the snowy mountain range. They could be in Dun Morogh if she squinted--the snowy crags and cliffs jutting up through the pine forests, a harsh landscape where only the strongest survive. She can appreciate its cold beauty. 

Another cry from below draws her gaze again. Jaina has managed to work herself halfway out of the cloaks and into the biting air. Sylvanas rolls her eyes and climbs down to re-cover her before frostbite sets in. The living require so much maintenance to remain such. She would have let the other woman freeze to death if she were sure she’d be able to raise her. She wasn’t needling the mage when she said she’d wait. Jaina Proudmoore in Horde red at her command is a delicious fantasy, and this isn’t the first time she’s ever indulged. She has no val’kyr here though, and to have such power succumb to true death would be a horrible waste.

When she reaches Jaina, she realizes that she can no longer avoid building a fire. The mage is shivering uncontrollably and still not conscious. If Sylvanas isn’t careful, she may never wake. Wolfsong echoes off the rocky outcroppings as she gathers the driest wood she can find and clears away a patch of ground in front of the windbreak and as close to Jaina as it can be without setting her aflame. Pine needles and a spark catch and as the small fire pops and crackles; Sylvanas is pleased to see she’s not lost everything from her ranger days. She turns her attention to the unconscious mage.

“Proudmoore,” She moves to sit next to the prone form, “I wasn’t joking when I said I’ll raise you if you die. Wake up.”

Jaina frowns and murmurs something again, her eyelids flutter but do not open. At least she is no longer shivering. Sylvanas debates shaking her a little to see if the stimulation brings her around quicker. She’s gloved and has re-armored herself with everything but the bracer she is using to splint the mage’s wrist. There would be no danger of Sylvanas drawing arcane from her again no matter how much she wants to. The memory floods back, calling up a shadow of the thrill she’d gotten.

_ She knew she should have kept her gloves on. The moment her fingers touched Jaina’s arm, she could taste it; a jolt of divine pleasure. Pure arcane, like from Azeroth, with no touch of the foreignness of this place’s magic.  _ Anar’alah _ , but it was delectable. She had to actively stop herself from pulling it through the mage and into herself until she was brimming with it. It was as if Jaina’s body was taking the magic from this land and trying to make it into something that the mage could use. She wonders if Jaina had felt it too. _

Jaina wouldn’t be helpless for long, if Sylvanas could keep her alive. The woman is so attuned to magic that her body was already trying to provide her with mana she could weave. Jaina would just have to learn how.  _ She is so dangerous _ ,  _ so powerful, and when able to spellcast again, I’ll have no leverage. _ She needs a plan. First though, get Jaina awake.

“Wake up, little mage.” Shaking her could reinjure the shoulder or cause enough pain for her to stir and pass out again. So instead, Sylvanas tries a trick she’s seen Liadrin do on unconscious soldiers. With the tip of her clawed gauntlet she moves the silver anchor pendant from between Jaina’s breasts and then pushes a bent knuckle against her sternum, the metal scales digging enough to be uncomfortable, but not break skin. The human is so fair, Sylvanas sees that she’ll probably bruise, but it can’t be helped. She’s tired of waiting.

Jaina frowns and tries to roll away from the pressure, but Sylvanas doesn’t relent until she sees the striking ice-blue of Jaina’s eyes, unfocused and blinking. “Stay with me, Proudmoore. I want to be able to show Liadrin my handiwork when we return.” For a moment, she glimpses the Jaina Proudmoore of old: open and unguarded. Then the mage realizes where she is and who she’s with and she closes herself off with a scowl.

“Take your hand off me, Banshee.”

At the disgusted remark, Sylvanas slips back into the Warchief. She dips her words in sarcasm and drawls out “ Anar'alah belore,  you wound me, Lord Admiral. I saved your life.” 

“Ama noral’arkhana, no noral’diel.” Jaina retorts, wincing as she levers herself up with her good arm and tries to pull both edges of her cloak together with one hand. 

Sylvanas doesn’t let her see that she’s surprised by the perfect Thalassian. “Oh it was your magic that saved you, I had nothing to do with it?”  _ All that time with Vereesa, no doubt--managed to pick up both the language and the attitude.  _ It pains her some, to think of her sister.

They sit in stony silence, Jaina still struggling with the cloak, until Sylvanas cannot take it any longer. She knows the Alliance calls  _ her _ imperious; their hypocrisy is stunning. It’s obvious their archmage would rather freeze to death than ask her for help. She jumps to her feet and slings Deathwhisper across her back. “I’m going to find you food, unless your  _ arkhana _ can do that too.” Her emphasis intentional, she waits, eyebrow raised, until Jaina slumps and drops her hand into her lap. 

“T-thank you, that would be nice.”

Sylvanas steps past the fire toward the mage. She smirks when Jaina shrinks back, but waits for permission to enter the mage’s space. Jaine holds her eyes, the fire’s leaping flames reflected in them, then drops her chin just enough in acquiescence. Sylvanas loosens her gloved fingers from the gauntlet and reaches down to buckle the cloak below Jaina’s neck. She forces down the urge to pull off her glove and trace along the line of that collarbone to taste the arcane that would rise to her fingers. She shakes her head, irritated at her lapse in control.

“Stay by the fire and yell if you see anything. There are wolves.” Sylvanas suppresses as much echo out of her voice as she can. If Jaina can play nice, she can too, for now. “I’ll be back soon.”

Jaina just nods, tugs her hood up, and hunkers down as close to the fire as she can get. 

  
  


s§s

Sylvanas watches as Jaina daintily picks bits of roasted meat with her front teeth, turning the bone this way and that to ensure she got it all. The rabbitish animals were easy to find and even easier to kill; this one had practically thrown itself in front of her arrow. The lack of challenge is vaguely insulting, she’d hoped a good bit of tracking would take her mind off this  _ situation _ they find themselves in. So much for that. When Sylvanas had returned with the animal slung over her shoulders, Jaina was sitting in the same place where she’d left her, forlorn and staring into the flames. The elf had watched her as she absently toyed with the pendant around her neck, her eyes far away in thought.  _ The Lord Admiral is as used to being in control as I am. She is mistaken if she thinks me to be the first to bend. _

The fire crackles and a plume of sparks climb into the sky when Jaina tosses the bone she was picking into it. She pops her index finger and her thumb into her mouth to clean them off and her cheeks color slightly when she catches Slyvanas’s eyes.

“You’re staring.” 

“You’re blushing.” 

Jaina’s jaw tightens and she narrows her eyes, “Out with it. Just say what you need to say and stop trying to kill me with your eyes.” 

“I won’t need to kill you if we stay here much longer. The mountains will do it for me, then I’m stuck here, wherever here is.”

“Thedas, here is called Thedas. Their sky is torn too. Maybe that’s why we ended up here.”

Sylvanas raises an eyebrow. 

“While I was unconscious, I went… somewhere else? I don’t know exactly, it was green and there were huge floating rocks. I thought it was just another dream, but then someone else appeared,” Sylvanas follows Jaina’s fingers as they seek out the pendant again, sliding it back and forth on its chain. The shadow of a two-lined bruise is clear on the pale skin where the pendant was sitting. She feels a moment of regret before reminding herself that she needed Jaina conscious. “Another elf, a mage, and he told me a little about where we are and that we need to find them.”

“Sin’dorei?” Sylvanas tries for nonchalance, tramping down the hope that Jaina was just dreaming and they were in some yet undiscovered part of Azeroth where Jaina’s magic doesn’t work. Foolishness, something that she doesn’t tolerate in others is absolutely abhorrent from her own mind. She scowls.

“No. Well, I don’t know, maybe?” Jaina’s brow furrows and she stops when she looks up at Sylvanas. The elf tries to school her face into something less murderous. She prides herself on her pragmatism, and hope has no place there. 

“He might be a half-elf? His ears aren’t like yours, they’re -- smaller.” Jaina adds warily with a pointed look at her hood.

She feels her right ear flick in response to the attention as she stands and slips Deathwhisper across her back once more. “Well, what are we waiting for? Hypothermia? We’ve already established that you’ll do me no good dead.” Jaina throws her a withering glance as she struggles to stand.

They aren’t going to make very good time with Jaina injured and the terrain as rough as it is. If they can stick to the wooded parts of the mountain, the snow isn’t as deep but the ground is uneven with rocks and tree roots. The clearing that runs along the valley to the east of them would be smoother terrain but deeper snow. As she deliberates, she picks up what’s left of her cloak and snaps it against a rock to knock off the clinging snow. Jaina stands awkwardly, upper arm bound against her side, broken wrist resting in a makeshift sling across her chest. She picks her way carefully over to her staff leaning against a tree at the edge of their camp. 

“Do you know where we have to go, or how far we are from it?” Sylvanas feels along the heavy fabric of the cloak for areas that might be soaked through. With this one, plus her own cloak, Jaina might make it to wherever they were going without freezing to death or losing any limbs to frostbite.

Jaina closes her eyes and tips her head back slightly, hand grasped tightly around her staff. The feeble glow the crystal emits pulses rhythmically; Sylvanas realizes it’s mirroring Jaina’s heartbeat. Her lips move faintly, a small frown creasing her brow before she drops her chin and opens her eyes to stare straight into Sylvanas’s. “ _ Tarasyl’an Tel’as _ . We need to go north. I don’t know how far though.”

Sylvanas holds her eyes for a moment before simply nodding and kicking snow over their fire. She shoulders Jaina’s pauldron and two leg pieces of the roasted meat that she tied together with another strip of cloth. No sense in wasting everything, especially since Jaina would need something while they travelled. The rest of the animal she’ll leave for the wolves she heard calling to one another through the night.

“Here, you need this more than I do.” Sylvanas walks over to Jaina holding the cloak in both hands. When Jaina goes to turn Sylvanas shakes her head, “No, like a tunic.” 

She clasps what’s left of the heavy material so that it hangs in front of the other woman, providing more coverage and protection from the wind. The strips cut from it have shortened it so that it rests just above her knees. 

Sylvanas looks at it ruefully. “You’ll owe me another when we return to Azeroth. Something dwarvish, tightly woven. This one was a particular favorite.” 

Jaina just rolls her eyes.

They walk for hours, Jaina’s staggering growing more and more pronounced as they trudge through snow. Sylvanas develops a system where she makes a small fire and leaves Jaina to rest and warm near it while she breaks through the knee-deep snow for a mile or two. Then she circles back to follow behind the other woman to keep her from falling. She dreads the ascent they undoubtedly have to make. At this point, Sylvanas will have to figure out a way to carry her. They’ve slowed almost to a crawl. Jaina’s eyes are drawn and teary from pain and exhaustion, but she makes no complaint and continues to put one foot in front of the other. Sylvanas begrudgingly admits that she might have been wrong in her assumptions about the other woman, that she’s delicate and spoiled from courtly living . Sylvanas hates being wrong.

“Can we stop a moment?” Jaina’s voice is small and soft and tinged in regret. 

Sylvanas doesn’t answer. She simply pushes through the snow to the nearest cluster of trees and sets the pauldron down for the mage to sit on. They are losing daylight; Sylvanas doesn’t want to chance another night out in the elements but they don’t seem to have much of a choice. They’ve seen no signs of anyone during their trek. Jaina insisted they were on the right path when Sylvanas asked, and right now, she has no reason to doubt her. 

“We’re going to have to stay here for the night.” Sylvanas throws back over her shoulder and she circles the area looking for branches and downed trees. “I won’t be able to let you sleep long, though. Too dangerous.”

She hears Jaina murmur something under her breath as she lowers herself onto the piece of armor. She catches the muttered  _ dangerous _ and  _ impossible _ and something that suspiciously sounded like  _ elf _ as she returned to where she kicked away the thin snow to make a bare patch.

“Keeping secrets, Proudmoore?” She doesn’t even bother to turn from where she’s stacking sticks into a pyramid and scraping dry pine needles from under the snow. She blows gently on the spark-caught needles and smiles as it flames immediately. She tucks the starter under the tented sticks and keeps feeding it pine needles and small twigs until everything is aflame. She then turns to look at the woman behind her. “Well?”

Jaina’s eyes are defiant but her good hand is under the cloak, shifting back and forth, back and forth nervously. Sylvanas can hear the faintly musical glide of metal on metal as Jaina’s necklace takes the brunt of her energy.  _ The Lord Admiral has a tell.  _ Sylvanas smirks and rises from the fire to lean against the nearest tree.

“The leader of this land doesn’t -- appreciate magic users. The elf, Solas is his name, called them the Herald. Apparently, they’re missing, but their Commander is as apt to kill me as the Herald.” Jaina’s voice is tight and she pauses a moment, puzzled, “But the elf seemed to be a mage, he carried a staff like mine, and he said he would call to me through their magic. I’m not sure why he still lives if being a mage is a death sentence--”

“Why are we going to them if they’re just going to kill you?” Sylvanas interrupts with a frown, gesturing with her hands. “I’m not doing all this to keep you alive only to have them off you at our approach. If you want to die, Lord Admiral, just not by my hands, simply say the word. I don’t need to kill you to raise you.”

“Shut up.” Jaina hisses at her, “Stop it. Stop threatening me whenever I say something to you. I don’t want to die, although sometimes I wish I had with all your bluster. You need me, you’ve said it yourself.” She hesitates a moment and all the anger washes out of her, “And now it seems, I need you again, too.”

Sylvanas tilts her head, leery of Jaina’s change in tone. 

“Solas knows I cannot cast spells, but no one else does.” The metallic zip of the pendant sounds one, two, three times, then it stops and she pulls her hand out to study her nails. “So he suggested that you be evidence of my magic. He said you’d be in danger here too, an abomination, they’d attack you as well.”

“ _I_ would be evidence of your magic?” Sylvanas narrows her eyes, their red glow growing sharper, “How’s that now?

Jaina ducks her head and brings a finger to her mouth to chew at the nail. Sylvanas had noticed when she set her wrist that the other woman’s nails were brutally short, several bitten to the quick. This woman is a ball of anxious energy and now, without access to arcane, it can only get worse. She waits in silence, frown creasing her brow.

“As if you were bound to me.” Jaina looks up at her with just her eyes. Sylvanas bears her teeth and vehemently shakes her head. She wants so badly to lash out at the mage, to hurt her like that word burns in her chest.

“Never. Never again.” 

“You wouldn’t truly be bound. You’d need only to pretend.” Jaina’s cheeks flush, as if her request shames her. Then her eyes go hard and cold. “I couldn’t bind you anyway, even if I had my magic, I’m no lich.”

“Thank the gods for that.” Jaina Proudmoore as a lich is a terrifying thought, and Sylvanas shivers despite herself.

“You would essentially protect me, and I you, until we can find a way back.” Then she does something that Sylvanas never expects. Those blue eyes hold her own and she pleads. “Please, Sylvanas. I’ve done nothing but try to think of another way. There isn’t.”

As her name tumbled from those lips, without scorn or disdain, she knew she would play her part. It seems that nothing’s changed, in her millenia of existence she’s always been a sucker for blue eyes and a pout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ama noral’arkhana, no noral’diel - Saved by magic, not by you.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who took a blind leap and started on this crazy ride. Your comments and kudos made me smile!
> 
> Have a wonderful weekend!


	3. Skyhold

Everything hurts and she is exhausted.

Jaina needs Sylvanas’s help for everything and it rankles her to the very core. She’s always been fiercely independent; even her recovery from the mana bomb had been a mostly private affair. Now, she can do virtually nothing alone...except cry. She indulged the urge only once since she woke, while Sylvanas had gone hunting, and it served no purpose but to dehydrate her. There was no catharsis; the nagging pain and emptiness weren’t eased by her tears. The only thing gleaned was deep disappointment in herself that she’d even let the tears fall.

The sun peeks through the trees, beams of sunlight almost made solid by the curling smoke of their fire. Jaina does not want to move. Her legs and back are stiff and sore from walking without one half of her body helping to balance her stride. Her right shoulder throbs from the reduction, and her left aches from repeatedly catching her weight on her staff to keep from falling. Sleeping on the cold, hard ground didn’t help matters. She pushes herself up with a pained groan, and shoves the hair loosened from her braid back out of her face.

“I lied yesterday.” Jaina tips her head side to side, trying to stretch out the stiff muscles in her neck. Yawning, she raises up to her knees and shuffles a few feet closer to the fire. “I do want to die. Kill me, raise me. This is misery.”

There’s no response. Jaina looks around the cluster of trees where they made camp. No Sylvanas and no Deathwhisper. Her stomach drops. Has Sylvanas abandoned her, so insulted by her begged request that she’s blown the horn and pulled her troops? Is Jaina just another Broken Shore? If so, she will get her wish and die out here; she can’t even get her hair out of her face much less build a fire or walk an unknown distance to where there might be people. She closes her eyes and reaches to her neck to rub the surface of the anchor, the motion slow and smooth to calm her racing thoughts. 

She jumps at the thump of the gutted rabbit Sylvanas tosses next to the fire. 

“I’d never believe that someone your age would still have a  _ fafa _ if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.” Sylvanas’s smirk is out in full force. 

Jaina’s angered at the relief that surges through her at the mocking tone, the emotional whiplash that this woman causes her is as fatiguing as trudging through the snow. 

“What are you talking about? What is a….” she trails off, momentarily distracted by the gutted animal next to her. “Wait, that… is  _ not _ a rabbit.”

“I never said it was.” Sylvanas sets her bow against a tree and picks up the animal by its back legs.

“Does it have hands?!” Jaina can’t keep the revulsion from her voice as she leans forward to get a closer look. She jumps again when Sylvanas stifles what might be a laugh.

“It seems to. Strange little creatures. They seem to have a death wish as well. I think you could convince them to jump right onto the fire to cook themselves for your breakfast.”

Sylvanas butchers the animal with her dagger and threads it onto a sharpened stick. Jaina reaches out to take it from her and hold it over the fire. She is pleased that she can be somewhat useful, that this uneasy partnership is at least a 90/10 split. The fat from the animal pops and crackles down onto the wood of the fire, making the flames jump up and smoke. Her stomach grumbles; she hunches down, embarrassed both by the noise and by Sylvanas’s snort of laughter.

“If you gave it what it wanted more regularly, it wouldn’t do that.” Sylvanas isn’t looking at her, instead going through her quiver to count the arrows within.

“It’s not like I can just go and get it something whenever it wants.” Jaina retorts, turning the cooking meat to the other side to finish. Hunting seems to make Sylvanas more amiable than normal. She tips her head up to look at the elf. “What were you talking about earlier? A woman my age wouldn’t have a what?”

Red eyes meet hers in amusement, just shy of mocking. If Jaina didn’t know better, she would say their glow was almost warm. Sylvanas, practically cordial, is something she’s never experienced, and honestly, never thought possible. “A  _ fafa _ . Like…” Sylvanas pauses a moment, searching, “I don’t know what you call them in common. Elven children all have them. Sometimes it’s a false nipple, or a doll, or a blanket. When they’re upset or in need of comfort, they hold them, or whatever. Most elves call them  _ fafas _ from the little ones’ pronunciation of  _ surfal _ . Veeresa was hopeless without hers--a blanket my mother had made her. When she was small, she would put it to her nose while she sucked her thumb.”

Jaina watches as the glow of her red eyes grows distant. “She’s carried it for centuries. The last time I saw it, not too long ago, it was just a scrap of silk she kept tucked in her belt pouch.”

“When was that?” Jaina can’t stop herself, fully entranced by the tale. Vereesa rarely ever talked about her childhood. Jaina tries to imagine her friend, a tow-headed toddler, curled in her older sister’s lap. The soft glow immediately leaves Sylvanas’s eyes and when she looks at Jaina, she’s the Banshee Queen again. 

“At Garrosh’s trial.” Her response is clipped and she rises abruptly, strapping her quiver to her back and grabbing her bow. “Are you ready?”

Whiplash again. Jaina is confused more by the thread of hurt that runs through her than she is by Sylvanas’s sudden shift in mood. For a moment, Jaina had forgotten she was talking to the Warchief of the Horde, to the Banshee Queen, to her sworn enemy. She’d let down her guard around the most dangerous woman in Azeroth. Two days of pain and no magic and Jaina is ready to swap secrets like a teenager at a sleepover, desperate for any kind of connection. Next thing, they’ll be braiding each others’ hair.  _ Oh shit, no. _

“Almost?” Jaina mutters. She does not want to ask for anything else, but she cannot go another day with her hair in her face. “Co-...could you…” She ducks and flips her head to flick her hair out of her face. Sylvanas looks at her blankly. 

She can feel the heat flood her cheeks, whether from embarrassment or shame, she doesn’t know. She carefully places the stick with her breakfast between her knees and pushes her hair back with her hand. “I can’t take another day like this, I’m sorry.” 

Jaina watches it click and the smirk rise to the banshee’s lips. She just sighs. Sylvanas is nothing if not insufferable. Whatever connection she had made before is lost between them. “You can be smug later. For now, I have a comb, so could you cut the thread first?”

Sylvanas says nothing, just drops to a knee next to her. She then pulls that wicked dagger from her belt and takes the end of Jaina’s ragged braid in her hand. With surprising care, she uses the tip of the dagger to cut the thread holding the plait together. Jaina drags her fingers through the braid to separate it, digs in the pouch on her belt for her comb, then pulls it through her hair as best she can. Sylvanas watches silently, arms resting on her thigh, toying with the dagger in one hand. 

“At this rate, you should just use that blade and cut this all off. I can’t manage it alone.” Frustration and impatience cloud her words as the comb snags on a tangle and she drops it for the third time. She wants to just throw the comb, stomp her feet, and scream and it must be evident on her face because the corners of Sylvanas’s mouth tug upwards.

“That would be a great loss.” Sylvanas sheathes her dagger and holds her hand out for the comb. “May I?” Jaina, befuddled by what is possibly a compliment, just nods dumbly.

She hands it over, then sits still as Sylvanas works the comb through her hair. It is strangely intimate, just as Jaina feared, but Sylvanas isn’t mocking her to distance them. She simply returns the comb and quickly re-braids her hair, pulling all the loose pieces back into the plait. Jaina hands her the small spool of thread and needle that are always tucked in with the comb. The elf deftly stitches the end of the braid tight enough to hold for the day and hands everything back to her.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Jaina holds her hand out for her staff, still pressing the stick between her knees. She needs to check again for the calling from Solas. She thought she’d have met him again when she slept last night, but her pockets of sleep were dreamless. Sylvanas had woken her every couple hours to have her warm by the fire. She hopes they are closer, that they can get there before nightfall. 

When it is in her hand, she closes her eyes and reaches deep inside herself to the place that usually swirls with bright light. Her focus is singular now; in Azeroth she could let her thoughts flit as she casted, this magic is different. It dances just out of her reach, like words caught on the tip of her tongue. She can see Solas’s call through the darker swirls, a trail of flickering yellow light, like fireflies moving in the direction they need to go. 

She collects the two things she can manage and leaves the rest for Sylvanas to grab and they both strike out into the snow.

* * *

Travelling today was far easier than yesterday. Once they made their way out of the valley and onto the path Solas had highlighted, they made up for lost time. Sylvanas didn’t need to path-break and Jaina didn’t rely as much on her staff because the snow where they’re walking was worn away by footprints of the people who arrived before them. 

Their easier passage doesn’t mean she’s still not thoroughly drained. Her shoulder has mostly stopped aching, but the throbbing in her wrist hasn’t changed much. When jarred, it still roils her stomach and leaves a faint sense of nausea for hours. The break was bad; Jaina isn’t sure if she’ll regain full motion once it heals. Hopefully there will be healers where they’re headed. 

“I can see it.” Sylvanas’s voice is low, called back over her shoulder from her position further up on the trail. The incline has increased dramatically, so Jaina leans harder on her staff. “We’re almost there.”

She’s not prepared for what appears in front of her when she reaches the crest of the hill. Between its massive bridge spanning cliffs and towering stone walls, the fortress makes up the peak of the neighboring mountain. “Tides, that is impressive.”

“It reeks of their magic.” Sylvanas wrinkles her nose and looks over at Jaina, “Can you feel it?”

Jaina stops to take inventory. Yes, she can feel it. It’s not the snowbright, sharp tang of arcane that she’s used to, instead it’s darker, feral, but not threatening. She wants to run her fingers through it, curious to see if the shadows are as smooth as they look. “Yes, I can. I can’t touch it, though I want to.”

When she opens her eyes, she sees Sylvanas looking at her, face clouded and brooding. 

“What?” As if she cares why Sylvanas Windrunner is staring daggers at her. Jaina doesn’t fear her anymore, not after the past two days. Sylvanas is too pragmatic, and her penchant for self-preservation render her  _ relatively _ predictable as well. As long as Jaina is useful, she’s safe… at least she hopes.

The storm drops off of Sylvanas’s fine features at her question, and instead she meets Jaina’s eyes with a smirk and raised eyebrow. As the elf strides away, Jaina huffs and drops her hand from her necklace. 

With the fortress in sight, they continue with purpose so the distance between them and the enormous, arching bridge closes rapidly. Sylvanas slows as they begin the crossing, dropping back to hover in front of Jaina. She’s irritated at first, it’s hard to find a place to put her staff with feet moving directly before her. Her stomach jumps when Sylvanas tells her to stay low. Now Jaina understands her proximity, her intention to become a pincushion of arrows if this all goes sideways. Noble, but useless, as Jaina would get maybe two steps before they’d down her as well.

“Maybe I should go first?” Jaina wonders if the mage of a bound demon would lead in this world, “Since you’re supposed to be bound and all.”

Sylvanas growls. “An intelligent mage would send their  _ pet _ ahead to keep themselves out of danger.”

Jaina just shrugs as she walks, miffed at the obvious dig. “Whatever you’d like,  _ pet _ .” 

Like an angry cat, the Warchief makes a low, hissing sound in her throat at her response, and Jaina smothers a smirk. She’s got fangs of her own that Sylvanas would be wise to avoid. She sees the fortress in greater detail now, its light, earthy colors stark against the snowy white landscape that surrounds it. 

As they get closer, she can see and hear the refugees Solas spoke of through the fortress’s grand entrance. Haggard and thin, they cluster together in what she assumes is the central courtyard. The entrance itself is guarded by a dozen or so armored individuals on whose chests an insignia of a sword blazes. 

Before Jaina can get a word out, one of them spots her, and instantly draws his blade. “Halt! Who are you and what business have you here?” His voice is loud and harsh, roughened by fear and mistrust. “And—Maker’s breath, what is  _ that _ ?”

The commotion catches the attention of the other guards, and they approach with swords drawn. Jaina swallows thickly, and hears Sylvanas hiss behind her. She spares a glance at the Warchief, and sees her hand twitching towards her bow, ears pinned back and teeth bared in a snarl. “I warned you, Proudmoore.”

_ It’s now or never.  _ “Wait!” she cries letting her staff clatter to the ground as she raises her good arm in surrender. She steps forward, pulling up even with Sylvanas. “We mean no harm! We’ve come seeking aid.” 

Their eyes flick from her to Sylvanas, whose hand is still inching towards Deathwhisper. She looks desperately at the elf, giving a little shake of her head. The hand stops, but doesn’t move away. “And she’s no threat to you.”

“And why should we let you and your…  _ abomination  _ in?”

Jaina hears the low growl from next to her at his words. She begs Sylvanas to be patient in her head. Even with the Banshee’s formidable skills, they’d not make it out. 

“We were told to come here by one of your own. His name is Solas.” She watches as recognition flits across the guard’s face. 

“The apostate?”

“Er- yes? Him.” 

The guards share uneasy looks before one of them scampers off deeper into the fortress, for what Jaina presumes is to fetch Solas. “Let me make this clear,  _ mage _ . I don’t trust you, or the elf for that matter, but he’s got the Herald’s ear and I trust  _ her _ . So if what you’re saying is true, I’ll allow you in, but  _ only  _ you.” He makes a disgusted face as he glances in Sylvanas’s direction. “The abomination has to go. Banish it back to the Fade where it belongs or I’ll cut it down myself.”

Sylvanas growls. “I’d like to see you try, human.” Her hand still hovers near her bow, and the sun still flashes on drawn steel in the guards’ hands; the tension in the air so thick Jaina finds it difficult to breathe.

Thick enough, it seems, to draw the attention of another individual as well. “Enough!” a new voice interjects, bold and commanding—the voice of a leader. “What’s going on here?”

“Lady Trevelyan! Thank the Maker—I think this is a situation that would be best for you to handle, my lady.” 

_ So this is the Herald _ , Jaina muses. The woman stands tall and broad-shouldered, the battleaxe strapped to her back making her presence even more forbidding. She is beautiful, but her beauty is harsh. Cold and unforgiving, her delicate features seem permanently arranged into a haughty scowl. Jaina can’t help but note the similarities between this woman and her traveling companion. “Greetings, my lady. I—”

“You’re a mage,” the woman cuts her off, giving her a quick once over. Her eyes narrow, flicking back up to meet Jaina’s in suspicion. “Weak and unharrowed, but a Mage nonetheless.” She mutters something under her breath that Jaina doesn’t catch, then crosses her arms, chin held high. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cut you and your pet demon down where you stand. I won’t have any more apostates in my Inquisition than I already do.” 

“As I said before, my lady, we were told to come here by one of your own—a mage named Solas.” 

The Herald arched a brow. “Solas told you to come here? Why?” 

"Because—“

“I believe that they could be of help to us, Lady Herald,” comes Solas’ familiar voice, and Jaina exhales in relief. With him around, hopefully these negotiations will go better than they had been. He looks the same as he did in the Fade, dressed in simple lambswool clothes.

“Solas,” Trevelyan says, greeting him with a smile that is all teeth and no warmth, “you had not mentioned you invited some …  _ friends  _ of yours.” 

“We are but passing acquaintances,” Solas replies evenly, unfazed. “I met Lady Jaina within the Fade, a few hours before you returned to us. I believe she may have knowledge useful to our cause.” 

“Like what?”

“Respectfully, that is a discussion best had in a more private location,” he responds, eyeing Sylvanas in a sidelong glance. Jaina watches as Syvanas holds his eyes in challenge.

The Herald hums, gaze flicking back to Jaina. “Be that as it may, there is still the issue of her demon. I will not have it roaming about in my castle, bringing terror to my people.”

“Sylvanas will not harm anyone, I swear to you, Lady Herald,” Jaina assures, hoping the Warchief catches her drift. Mercifully, Sylvanas drops her hands down to her sides, although her ears are still pinned back firmly against her head. “I will make sure of it.” 

“And how will you do that?”

“She is… bound, to me. She cannot do what I do not permit her to.” 

“Is that so? Tell me then, Lady Jaina, why exactly  _ do  _ you have a demon bound to you?” 

“I… Sylvanas saved my life. I doubt I would be standing before you now were it not for her.” 

The Herald clicks her tongue, clearly unconvinced.

“If it would comfort you, you could always have them secluded to a section of Skyhold, my lady. It is certainly big enough,” Solas offers. 

“You are quite adamant about this, Solas. Why?”

“It is as I said before, my lady—I believe they can help us. And to go against a threat like Corypheus, we will need all the help we can get.”

“Hmm,” she hums again, then relents. “I must discuss this further with my advisors. For now, take them to the cells.”

Solas tips his head in deference. “As you wish, Lady.” He turns and beckons them to follow.

“Lady Jaina, Sylvanas.” He points to the doorway across the courtyard, his face carefully blank. “Welcome to Skyhold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're entering new territory for me! My Inquisitor has always been pro-mage, so it's been interesting to go against everything I've always played.
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your kudos and comments and coming on this adventure with me even if you're familiar with only one 'verse.  
> ♥


	4. Judgement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be the update schedule from here on out. Each chapter will be about a week and a half apart.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and for your kudos, and comments! There is no greater joy than having an inbox with comment alerts in it!  
> I've really enjoyed talking with you all who have posted questions and theories. My co-conspirator, Nightingayles, has joined me here and may chime in as well.

This was a terrible idea. 

Sylvanas paces the length of the cell muttering Thalassian curses and kicking pieces of broken stone and wood against the three walls. She should have known better than to believe that Alliance bitch. Better to go out swinging than to rot away like some caged beast in a forgotten zoo, but no, she stupidly agreed to follow Jaina’s quest for some magical dream-elf. As her bound slave nonetheless. She willingly put herself into this role because of tears and pleading blue eyes and a silly pout. Now they’re fucked. She’s fucked. She couldn’t care less about the mage at this point.  _ Soft, stupid. You got soft. _

For all of its formidable exterior, Skyhold is falling apart. When Solas brought them to the holding cells, it was obvious that the fortress was in disrepair. Sylvanas can see the rocky crags of the mountain range through the gaping hole in the middle of the floor and exterior wall. It can barely be called a room given how much is missing. Cells line the catwalks that remain along the rim of the missing floor. There were enough intact cells that they could have been separated, but Solas had them caged together. Trapped, she’s trapped here in this hell surrounded by the enemy and rooming with a traitor.

She has time to stew, they took Jaina away about an hour ago, for  _ healing _ they said. If she’s not back in the next ten minutes, Sylvanas plans to bust out or die trying. The guard posted outside their cell watches her warily, but Sylvanas continues pacing. Without Deathwhisper and her quiver, she feels naked and exposed. Solas had apologized before asking both her and Jaina to hand over their weapons and Sylvanas initially refused. Jaina had handed the guard her staff and then turned to Sylvanas with those beseeching eyes and mouthed for Sylvanas to trust her. The guard wouldn’t touch her bow, she simply pointed to a corner that was intact and told Jaina to get the dagger and quiver too. Thankfully, they were too afraid to physically touch her, so the stilettos sheathed in each boot remain, a small comfort she relies on when her anxiety is this high. 

She also cannot shift forms. Like Jaina, this magic won’t support her. She can taste it, and obviously her body converts it to enough energy to keep her undead, but the shadows elude her and her tendrils don’t heed her call. Despite her anger, the wail doesn’t build in her throat. The next rock she kicks deflects off the wall and careens across the cell to collide with the bars. Sylvanas hears the guard’s sword slip from his scabbard and she realizes that she wants this fight. She obeys no one but herself and if she wants to make this man regret his job, she will.

“Ay, Maker take yeh, what’s all that racket?” 

She waits in silence, moving closer to the bars but against the wall so he can’t see her. Hand hovering near the hidden blades in her boots, she can hear his heavy footfalls as he approaches.  _ Humans _ . She rolls her eyes at his lack of grace, her muscles coiling to shoot her arm through the bars, grab him, and pull the razor-sharp blade from ear to ear. 

He doesn’t make it to the cell. A metallic scrape and bang drags his attention from her to the door of the jail where the two guards who pushed it open are trying to maneuver through it with a limp Jaina held between them. Each has one of her arms across his shoulders and Sylvanas winces at the pain she must have been in with the strain on her injured shoulder and wrist.

“Are you fools blind? She’s injured, why are you carrying her like that?” Sylvanas shouts at them, her hands grabbing the bars and rattling them in her frustration. “Put her down!”

They drag her over to the cell door and lower her in a groaning heap. Sylvanas can see the beads of sweat above her upper lip and how her damp golden hair clings to her temples. She almost looks worse than the first day they were here. Sylvanas growls out, “What did you do to her?”

The escorts ignore her question and point to the back wall of the cell. “You,  _ abomination _ , go sit facing the wall over there. Legs straight ahead, arms behind your back.”

Sylvanas glares at the man, unmoving. He holds her eyes, then shrugs. “Throw her through the floor. The Inquisitor saw how she was after the healing. We’ll just say she lost her balance near the edge.”

The other two guards smirk and lean down to take Jaina’s arms. She cries out when they pull her up by her shoulder, her eyes fly open, bright with pain and fear. She stumbles between them and falls to her knees, eyes locked with Sylvanas’s. “Tell your demon to do what we told it to do, or you’re going to take a little tumble.”

“Sylvanas…please.” 

She holds Jaina’s eyes for a moment more, angry. Angry that they’re here, angry she’s powerless, angry that she again cannot refuse that beseeching blue. She steps back to where they told her, moving to sit and hold her arms clasped behind her back. The door swings open with a squeal of hinges, and she can feel the point of a blade at the back of her neck. “Do yeh bleed, demon?” The guard she was hoping to kill pushes the blade just hard enough for it to bite into skin, yet she doesn’t move but to grit her teeth. 

They half-drag, half-lead Jaina to the pallet and drop her onto it, exiting the cell with raucous laughter and taunts at the mage’s slumped form. Sylvanas reaches back where the blade nicked her skin and wipes away the dark ichor oozing from the shallow cut. Such a shame she wasn’t able to run his own test on him. She pushes herself up from the back of cell and walks over to the makeshift bed. Jaina sits, staring at the floor, wrist unbound and Sylvanas’s bracer in her hand.

“I’m surprised they sent you back with that, they’ve taken everything else.” 

Jaina’s eyes remain downcast as she holds the bracer out. Sylvanas takes it from her but doesn’t buckle it on. The Herald, or Inquisitor, as most of the guards called her, had commanded that they be stripped of all armor and weapons. Sylvanas has only her leathers, leggings, and boots; her cloak was still clipped to Jaina’s front, hood bundled around her neck like a scarf.

“She is an awful woman.” It’s barely a whisper, but Sylvanas has no trouble hearing it over the whistling wind that blows through the cells. “He was only allowed to heal me enough that I don’t need the wrappings. The bone is fused and the swelling is mostly down in the shoulder and wrist, but there’s still pain. Then she made him stop. Why?”

It’s not difficult for Sylvanas to think of a hundred reasons; there are several cruel bones in her body. Had the roles been reversed, Sylvanas might not have healed her at all. Control, power, pleasure -- who knows what the other woman’s objective is. She thinks back to the savage bliss that came as hot and heavy as the flames at Teldrassil. It wasn’t until after that she noticed the emptiness in her chest where those flames once were. First Arthas, then emptiness. Then Calia, emptiness. Teldrassil, Derek, Delaryn, Sira, it didn’t matter. She’s still hollow and echoing.

Jaina raises her head to meet her eyes when Sylvanas doesn’t answer. Sylvanas watches the volley of emotions cross her face until it is anger that burns blue in her eyes. 

“Would you even have healed me?”

“If I were her?”

“Yes.”

“No.” Sylvanas’s voice is flat as she speaks this truth. She understands that woman, and how fanatical power works. “Unless I was convinced that you being alive would serve me better than you being dead.”

Jaina looks like she wants to say more, but she presses her lips together in a thin line and shakes her head.

“You owe your elf-mage your life. I don’t know what he told her, but you’re still alive and healed.” Sylvanas wonders what else Jaina might owe and whether being dead might be better than half-healed. She taps a nail against a fang in thought.

“What if you were you?”

“What?” Sylvanas raises an eyebrow at the question. Jaina looks away a moment before setting her jaw and meeting her eyes again. 

“Would you have healed me if you were you?”

“I did the best I could, didn’t I?”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Jaina snaps.

Sylvanas just looks at the other woman, asking questions to which she damn well already knows the answer. She keeps her face as impassive as always, stuffing down the irritation that almost always comes with Jaina’s questions. 

“My answer is the same as before. If I were me and we were in Azeroth, you would be worth more to me undead than alive.”

Why is she looking at her with such grave disappointment? Where did that anger go? The Jaina Proudmoore that Sylvanas knows isn’t this naive, or strategically blind, or foolish. Ever the optimist, just like the little lion cub, but she’d thought not this blindly so. 

“We are enemies, Jaina. The Inquisitor and us. You and I.” Sylvanas drawls out, “Why would you think I would do anything else; that she would?”

Jaina doesn’t answer at first. She simply closes her eyes and leans back against the wall, tipping her head to rest against the rough stones. Sylvanas notes that she’s still holding her arm tightly against her body and cradling her half-healed wrist in her lap. Her voice is so soft when she finally does speak that Sylvanas has to focus to hear her.

“Why does everything have to be in the context of worth and war?”

Again, Sylvanas doesn’t have an answer.

  
  


* * *

“We have to go in front of the Inquisitor for judgement. Then, if she doesn’t condemn us to death or exile us, I have to undergo a harrowing.”

Sylvanas looks up from the sliver of wood she is scratching into with her nails. It is strange to not have anything to do, to actually be bored instead of feigning it for a power play. They’d been sitting quietly since Jaina’s question. Sylvanas didn’t think it was possible for the mage to remain quiet this long, but after Sylvanas’s lack of an answer they’d lapsed into an uneasy silence. 

“Judgement? And what does the  _ almighty _ endeavor to judge us for?”

Jaina bends and flexes her wrist slowly, rolling it around as far as she is able. Sylvanas has been surreptitiously watching her wince and quietly gasp for the past hour or so. It’d been a bad break; she’ll be lucky to get the same range of motion as before. Sylvanas wonders briefly if it will affect her spellcasting. She’s seen Jaina from afar, her hands dancing as they wove death for Horde troops. She’s curious, but not enough to give Jaina the satisfaction of her interest or the pleasure of telling her to fuck off.

“Existing? I don’t know.” With a sigh, Jaina drops her arm into her lap.

Sylvanas snorts. She doesn’t understand how someone would be so willing to eliminate the fountain of power sitting in this filthy cell. Bad strategy, bad tactics. Once Jaina figures out how to twist this magic, she will be everything the Inquisitor fears. Sylvanas might not be able to assume her banshee form or wail, but she’s still a formidable archer and retains much of her undead strength. With a spellcasting Jaina Proudmoore at her side, they would be unstoppable. She briefly entertains the thought of asking Jaina if she’d felt the surge of arcane when they’d touched, but thinks better of it.

“If she exiles us, fine. I can live in this world if I must. If she chooses death, though, I won’t go down without a fight.” She looks up, fierce red holding Jaina’s eyes, “And I hope you won’t either.”

Blue sharpens, defiant. There’s the Jaina Proudmoore she knows; the one that purged Dalaran and almost destroyed Orgrimmar. There is still a hint of ruthlessness behind that virtuous beauty, and Sylvanas smirks. She’s not as alone as she thought.

“And what exactly _ is  _ this ‘Harrowing’?”

Jaina shrugs and promptly sucks a gasp through her teeth. “Ow.” She rolls her shoulder, massaging the joint with her good hand. “It sounds terrible, but I don’t know what it is. Solas or the mage that helped heal me said one or both of them would come and explain.”

The door screeches open and both guards jump to attention and Sylvanas steps in front of Jaina. The elf-mage is there, but this time he has a companion. A dark-haired man trails behind him, expression utterly exasperated and unamused. She doesn’t take her eyes from him as she murmurs quietly. ““Speak of the devil…who’s the other one?”

Jaina leans to look around her and whispers confirmation. “He was there when Solas healed me. I don’t know what his name is though. They didn’t offer introductions.”

“Is he one of  _ them _ ?” Sylvanas sees the man scowl as Solas enters an irritated back-and-forth with one of the guards, shaking his head and dragging a hand over his face.

“Them, like one of the Inquisitor’s? I don’t think so. He seemed apologetic that I couldn’t be fully healed. He was kind.” Sylvanas looks down at Jaina peering out from behind her leg. “He doesn’t look very happy about what the guards are saying.”

At that point, the dark-haired mage had interjected for Solas. He is far more animated than the elf-mage, and grows increasingly incensed, his arms now gesturing emphatically, pointing to his wrist then shoulder then their cell again. This time, the guards just shrug and move to the side, opening up the narrow pathway for him to continue to where they wait.

“Bloody awful. Idiots. Are you alright?” His voice is pleasant; not even a hint of disdain coloring an accent that is nothing like the guards’ or Inquisitor’s. 

Sylvanas looks him up and down, and crosses her arms over her chest. “And you are…?”

The man beams, sweeping into an elegant bow. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. A pleasure.”

“It is good to see you again, Lady Jaina,” Solas smoothly adds. 

Jaina is smiling slightly up at both of them, but Sylvanas says nothing. She knows--vaguely--of Solas’ stance on Proudmoore, but not his. What are his intentions coming here? If he is looking for information, he won’t get it from her, at least not without discussing it with Jaina first. 

“The friendly sort, are you then?” His eyes don’t leave hers, despite her glower, and there’s a certain look that makes her uneasy. There’s no threat, but this man knows more than he’s letting on. “We’ve come to check in on you, Lady Jaina, if your  _ demon _ will allow it.”

Jaina pushes herself to her feet, brushing the dust off with her good hand. Sylvanas steps to the side so she can approach the bars. Both guards are watching them closely, hands on the pommels of their swords.

“We’re not permitted to heal you further, but I was allowed to come and check on you.” Solas says in a low tone, “But that’s not why I’m here. We decided to tell you about the Harrowing so that you would be prepared in the event the judgement isn’t against you.”

“Why both of you?” Sylvanas frowns. 

“It was recommended in case  _ you _ ,” Dorian says, looking pointedly in Sylvanas’ direction, “decide to wreak havoc in this lovely prison cell, two mages would most certainly be a better bet at taking you down than one. And to check up on the Good Lady too, of course.”

Sylvanas bares her fangs, but Dorian is wholly unfazed. 

Solas, on the other hand, looks over to Jaina and murmurs. “Move your arm as though you’re showing me what pains you and what doesn’t.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sylvanas sees Jaina raise her arm with a wince and Solas nods, hand touching his chin in deliberation. The action belies his words as he continues.

“A Harrowing is a test all Circle mages are expected to undergo as a method to prove their strength in the face of demonic temptation,” Solas explains. “As far as I am aware, most times these Harrowings go smoothly, as apprentice mages are trained from a very young age for this very event.”

“And if something goes wrong?” Sylvanas already knows the answer, but she wants Jaina to hear it from their mouths, not hers.

Solas’ face screws up, as if he swallowed something bitter. “That mage will be killed.”

“And they call Tevinter barbaric,” Dorian mutters under his breath. “There is also the choice to be made Tranquil, though personally, I believe that’s a fate far worse than death.”

“Why? What happens if one is made Tranquil?” Jaina’s low voice can barely be heard over the gust of wind that blows up through the floor.

“Being made Tranquil cuts a mage off from the Fade, they are then branded, so everyone knows they’re harmless husks. They lose their magic… and their emotions,” Solas grits out, his jaw working, as if the words physically pained him. “They become monotonous, blank shells--beings that only know logic and emptiness.”

“Generally, it’s used as a precautionary measure, since demons are uninterested in Tranquils,” Dorian elaborates further. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised if these  _ Templars  _ went about handing out brands willy-nilly.” 

“And advice on how to pass this test?” 

“The Harrowing is more a test of will and common sense than magical ability. You seem to have a great deal of both--I’m confident you will succeed, Lady Jaina.” 

Jaina exhales heavily. “No pressure, right?”

Solas offers her a wan smile. 

Sylvanas catches the approach of the guards over Dorian’s shoulder. “They’re coming.” 

“A’right, yeh. She looks well enough to stand judgement, I’d say.”

Solas dips his head and lets the guards pass. Dorian does the same, although his face is affixed into a deep scowl. One of the two guards in front of the cell pulls two lengths of rough rope from his belt. “Turn around, yeh both, and put yer hands back through the bars.” 

Jaina goes to turn, but stops when Sylvanas doesn’t move. 

“Why?”

“‘Cause the Inquisitor wants yer hands bound, like all the prisoners she passes judgement on. Come on then.”

Sylvanas nods slightly at Jaina who turns and backs slowly to the barred gate, her injured shoulder making it almost impossible to raise both arms behind her at the level the guard wants them. As soon as her hands are through, the guard without the rope loops his arm through the bars to press a dagger to the white column of her throat. Sylvanas growls, her eyes jumping to Jaina’s for a command. She can assuredly break his arm and wrest the blade from his hand, but not fast enough to prevent harm to the other woman. He knows it too, she can tell from the brash way he holds her glare.

“Heel your dog, mage.” 

Jaina’s eyes tighten, but Sylvanas sees no fear in the blue swirl of pain and anger. The mage says nothing aloud, but her gaze screams for Sylvanas to be still. So she relaxes her posture and waits, even when a thin rivulet of red slides from the nick that comes from swallowing against the blade, her eyes never leave Jaina’s. Once Jaina is secured, Sylvanas turns and does the same. There is no dagger pressed to her throat, however, and the rope is hastily tied. It’s obvious that they don’t want to be near her, much less actually touch her. She smirks and flexes against the bindings. Breakable if necessary. Good.

They follow across a courtyard and up a large staircase into a crumbling keep. Her ears twitch at the low susurrus that echoes in the hall. In front of them, on a dais at the end, sits a throne like a sunburst, blade-like rays fanning out from the chairback. It is currently empty, so the symbol of the Inquisition, an eye run through with a sword, is plainly visible. A dark-haired woman with paper and board tucked into her arm announces the Inquisitor, who enters from a door behind and to the left of the throne. She walks to the seat with her head high, eyes bright and proud, her sharp gaze falling on them at the end of the hall. It’s obvious to Sylvanas that this woman understands power, and people, and how to get what she wants. Dangerous in a way that she, herself, knows intimately.

“Inquisitor, Lady Jaina Proudmoore and her bound demon.” The dark-haired woman’s voice curls around Jaina’s name, rolling the Rs as she announces them. “They were found approaching Skyhold, armed, with unknown intentions.”

The Inquisitor leans forward, and Sylvanas moves toward Jaina, stepping slightly in front of her so she stands between them without blocking her from view. She holds the Inquisitor’s gaze in challenge. The other woman’s face remains impassive despite the flash of irritation in her eyes.

“Lady Proudmoore, Solas has told me the incredible story of your arrival here at Skyhold. I never took him for a fool, so perhaps this time he was blinded by your beauty and obvious need for aid to believe what you told him.”

Sylvanas glances at the elf standing against the wall behind the small crowd gathered to watch the judgement. His face is blank but for a contradictory tightness around his eyes and mouth. There is no lost love between them.  _ Does this woman not realize she is handing us allies? _ She would never be so shortsighted, herself.

“The story is fantastic beyond all belief. Dropped in a land with a hole in the sky from another land as afflicted, a mage who can walk the Fade and who has bound a demon into her service. We all know the former is impossible; so tell me, Lady, how exactly did you bind this abomination without a blood sacrifice?”

Sylvanas bristles at the slur, but forces the reaction to not show on her face. She glances over at Jaina, whose lips are pressed into a thin line, annoyance evident on her face.

“She is not an abomination.”

The Inquisitor snorts derisively.

“I have known Sylvanas since I was practically a child. Living, she was Ranger General of her homeland and a hero to her people, as she is now, she is Warchief of the Horde and Queen of the Forsaken. She was bound to me…” Jaina hesitates, and Sylvanas can practically feel Jaina willing her to assent. “When she first died defending her home. I raised her at her sister’s request, and she has travelled with me, when I’ve needed her, ever since. I don’t need blood sacrifices to bind.” 

The lie is outrageous, yet Sylvanas remains impassive, as if hearing this tale bores her with its retelling. Inside, she is in turmoil; she cannot help but think of fields of yellow tulips, of the glowing blue runes of Frostmourne, of the torment that followed. Her eyes flick over the Inquisitor’s face, looking for doubt or belief, but she is as inscrutable as Sylvanas, herself. Jaina, to her credit, holds the imperious jut of her chin despite the Inquisitor’s scrutiny. The woman turns her gaze to her.

“Is this true?”

“It is. I owe Lady Proudmoore my life and I serve her whims.” Sylvanas drawls, her emphasis sickly-sweet.

The Inquisitor either doesn’t notice her irreverence, or doesn’t care. She looks back to Jaina.

“You are a Tevinter mage then, Lady Proudmoore? Dealing in necromancy and blood magic?”

Jaina shakes her head, nose wrinkled in disgust and voice dripping with disdain. “I am no lich.” 

Sylvanas wonders if Jaina will be able to lie her way out of their origin story, if the Inquisitor presses. How did she raise Sylvanas if not from necromancy? She might gag if Jaina claims she used the Light. She is no Calia Menethil.

The Inquisitor raises an eyebrow. Jaina refuting blood magic and necromancy seem to be her only concern. “Why did you come here to Skyhold?”

“Solas thought we could be of use to the Inquisition. We had nowhere else to go.”

The Inquisitor tents her fingers, resting her chin on her thumbs as she looks between the two of them and Solas. “Have the Lady undergo a Harrowing. It may make my decision for me. Until then, back to the cells.”

As the guards move to collect them, Sylvanas sneaks a look back to Jaina when she hears the other woman sigh deeply. Her freckles stand out in high relief on her pale face, and her eyes are drawn and ringed by circles almost plum-dark. There are times when Sylvanas misses her living body, to experience all of her senses in full instead of muted, but she doesn’t miss what is evident in Jaina’s face -- the crush of exhaustion, or hunger, or thirst. 

Once she pulls abreast of the mage, she leans over to whisper in her ear. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Can you do this, tomorrow?”

“It’s not as if I have a choice.” Jaina’s good shoulder rises and falls, resigned.

Something warm blooms in her chest, and her hand jumps up to cover her scar. It is not pain exactly, not the twisting douleur she felt in the portal, but it’s unfamiliar, nonetheless. She scratches the spot absently as they walk back to their cell. Sylvanas knows Jaina has felt this way about many decisions in her life. She hopes this will not be another that the other woman regrets.


	5. The Harrowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday!
> 
> This chap is slightly shorter than the rest of them, I'm not sure what was going on in my head when we wrote this one. Guess it was like: this seems a good enough place to stop!
> 
> It's been so fun chatting with y'all in the comments.  
> Here y'all go, enjoy some hurt/comfort.

Jaina cannot remember being this sick in her thirty-six years. Actually, she is realizing that she is so sick, that she just can’t remember. She has no idea what part of the day it is, or when she was brought back to the cell, or how long she has been laying with her upper body across Sylvanas’s lap. The only thing she  _ can _ remember is that she probably shouldn’t be, and if she could form a coherent thought and words, she’d apologize profusely and roll away. Because she sure as hell cannot stand right now. What the fuck happened? She groans and in an instant, Sylvanas has levered her up and over the bucket that used to be in the corner of their cell. Her head reels from the motion and her stomach heaves, but there’s nothing left in her to purge. She grits her teeth, trying to will the gagging coughs to stop and her stomach to relax from the knot it has tied itself in.

Sylvanas gently rubs her back, murmuring in Thalassian, but her head is in too much of a jumble to make any of it out. Her hair sticks to her temples, the longer pieces that have fallen from her braid are catching in the corners of her mouth. She’s covered in a light sheen of sweat, skin clammy while inside she feels like she’s on fire. She brings her hands up to clutch at Sylvanas’s arm that loops under her neck and across her chest, holding her up.

“Ah there you are.” Sylvanas speaks softly, but it’s a scream to her throbbing head. She flinches, and Sylvanas tightens her grip, lowering her slowly back to her lap. She’s too afraid to open her eyes, both for the expression on Sylvanas’s face and the spike of pain that would come with the light. Sylvanas tries again, this time barely whispering.

“Keep your hands there on my arm. Squeeze once for yes, twice for no. Alright?”

One squeeze.

The world isn’t spinning quite as fast as it was a second ago. She tries to get the tense muscles of her back and abdomen to calm, but fear of throwing up again and all the vertigo that it entails prevents her.

“I’m sorry for before. Usually you would rouse a bit right before vomiting and I didn’t want you to puke on my boots. If you’re feeling nauseous again, squeeze a bunch. I’ll try not to move you otherwise.”

One squeeze.

“Apparently you don’t handle their version of mana potions very well. Do you remember anything?”

Thinking hurts. Listening to Sylvanas hurts. Maybe if she can sleep, some of this will go away, and then she can talk. Jaina whimpers, squeezes twice, then rasps, “My head. Sleep.”

Sylvanas doesn’t respond, but Jaina feels her shift carefully so that now her head is tucked into the crook of the elf’s elbow. Sylvanas’s free hand lifts the corner of her cloak to wipe away the dampness on her neck and temples, then gently smoothes the flyaway hairs back from her face. The brief pressure of her hand brings a slight relief to the throbbing, so she raises a trembling hand to grab Sylvanas’s and places it against her head, pressing as hard as she can muster. Sylvanas seems to understand; she threads her fingers into her braid, squeezes softly and presses down with her palm. The relief, instantaneous; the sigh Jaina utters, almost a moan.

She dozes on and off for what feels like hours, but turns out to be days. Once her headache was under control and she stopped throwing up after being moved, Sylvanas had wrapped her in both their cloaks and woke her only to drink the water and soupy gruel they brought to the cell. She has vague memories of this time: Sylvanas holding the bowl to her lips with one hand while cradling her head in the other, Sylvanas washing her face with piece of cloth tore from her own shirt, Sylvanas talking to her like an equal, no sneer, no disdain, just a running monologue in a melange of Common and Thalassian. When the pain was gone, the nightmares started. She dreamed of her father, of Derek, of Thros and its horrors, all of it still lurked in her subconscious. Every time she jerked awake, Sylvanas was there, humming softly or combing her fingers through Jaina’s hair. 

This time, when her eyes open, she doesn’t wince away from the sunlight streaming in from the hole in the wall. Everything rushes back to her in a gasp: the portal, her broken body, Skyhold, the Inquisition’s cruelty, the Harrowing. She sits up, faster than she should have since the floor she’s sitting on immediately tips, and throws her arms out to steady herself. Sylvanas is by her side in an instant, but Jaina shakes her head. 

“How long has it been?”

“Four days--five if you count the day they took you.” Sylvanas is cautious, her voice soft and almost free of the dual tone. She keeps her distance, nothing like the fuzzy moments Jaina remembers being in her arms. “What do you remember?”

Her hand drifts up to finger her pendant as she tries to separate real from dream. The patches of black over the past five days are vast so she tries to remember from before that. 

“The Commander came to get me. Rutherford is his name?” When she looks up, Sylvanas is smirking slightly, and her red gaze jumps from Jaina’s hand to her face. Jaina drops her hand into her lap, fighting the urge to chew a nail instead. She waits for Sylvanas to insult her for her fidgets, to tease and sneer, however, nothing comes but a nod, confirming the man’s name. 

“And they made you stay here.” This, too, stands out like a spark in her mind. Sylvanas had argued vehemently, growling and posturing, against having to stay in the cell while they took Jaina. It was only after Solas had promised he would protect her as well as he could that she’d stood aside and let them lead her away.

“After that I don’t remember much. They gave me something to drink-- lyrium they called it.” Her hand is back toying with the necklace. She looks pointedly at Sylvanas, refusing to be shamed for taking this small comfort. “I blacked out, and that’s it.”

It’s a lie. 

She remembers Sylvanas rubbing her back, feeding her, smoothing her hair but thinking about those things makes something bloom warm in her chest that simply cannot be permitted to grow. Jaina cannot again harbor fondness for another person bent on genocide and fueled by their own thirst for power. It’s easier to pretend she has no memories of the mounting evidence of Sylvanas’s empathy; it’s easier to pretend that empathy is something ulterior. 

Sylvanas tilts her head, doubt plain on her face. She waits a moment, but when Jaina says no more, there’s obvious relief in her voice when she offers “I know only what they told me when they dragged you back here. The Harrowing was unsuccessful, but not because you failed, but because you almost died from the lyrium consumption. Solas said you convulsed almost immediately, and that you would have been killed on the spot except that the female mage told Commander Rutherford you never made it to the Fade, so you couldn’t be possessed. Solas told me he pushed again that we’re not from here, and he thinks your reaction to the lyrium might convince them.”

“Lucky us.” Jaina replies flatly, “I can’t say that it was worth it.”

Sylvanas snorts and covers her mouth with a hand, eyes rising to the ceiling to avoid Jaina’s. There’s that flash of heat again, but she refuses to smile and engage with the other woman so casually. Over the past week and a half, at least the parts that she’s been conscious, she’s noticed the shift in Sylvanas’s behavior towards her. Initially, as antagonistic as she would expect, to more tolerant, to now what are more and more frequent moments of something beyond tolerance. To what gain? She’s already made her plans to Jaina perfectly clear: keep her alive long enough to figure out how to teleport them home. Jaina will uphold her end of the bargain as long as Sylvanas does. Trouble is, Sylvanas isn’t known for forthright words and actions.

Deep in thought, Jaina misses the silent entry of a hooded woman until she is already at the bars. To her credit, she startles Sylvanas as well, who’d gone back to whatever she was doing with the slivers of wood. Her lilac-colored hood is pulled up so far that it completely hides her face. She stands, arms by her sides, and simply peers into their cell. Jaina doesn’t bother to get up from the floor, but Sylvanas stands and crosses her arms.

“I see you’ve recovered.” The stranger’s melodic voice lilts over the vowels as she speaks, accent different again from all the others that they’ve met. 

Jaina inclines her head, but still doesn’t get up from the pallet. Her head still feels as if it’s not quite attached to the rest of her and even sitting, her balance is off. Sylvanas says nothing. The woman steps close enough to rest the fingers on one hand against the bars. The dying light from the hole in the wall and the torches plays in the shadow of her hood, giving Jaina a glimpse of high cheekbones and fire-red hair. Their eyes match, pale blue set above dark circles and freckles.

“You’ve caused quite a stir in the keep, Jaina Proudmoore. A confessed mage who cannot stomach lyrium, yet who can walk the Fade while Dreaming.” Her fingers slide across the bars, a faintly musical chime. Jaina sees Sylvanas’s ears twitch out of the corner of her eye. “A bound demon who looks like an elf and seems to possess a significant amount of autonomy. You claim to come from another world with a similar affliction, a tear in the Veil. Solas and the former Grand Enchantress Vivienne believe you despite Chantry scripture stating that the Maker has made  _ this _ world and everything in it. Both have argued on your behalf, going so far as to endanger their places in the Inquisition. Very out of character for them. So I’ve decided to come see for myself.”

“And you are?” Sylvanas’s tone is decidedly dismissive. Jaina reaches out and taps the heel of her boot with a finger, a quiet rebuke and reminder not to push away people who could help them.

“Sister Leliana of the Chantry.” She looks at Jaina as she speaks, eyes studying her face, following the streak of gold in her hair. This woman is no simple cleric, Jaina can see the razor sharp intelligence in her eyes as she appraises her. She almost smiles as the woman completely ignores Sylvanas, another sign that this woman is not just clergy--she knows how to play Sylvanas’s game.

“I don’t see why a Sister would be so interested.” Jaina hates speaking from the floor, but wobbling or needing Sylvanas to remain upright would be worse. Sylvanas, still silent, just watches Leliana as she talks.

“Curiosity--though let’s also say that I have a vested interest in the goings-on in this world.” She gestures with one arm, causing her hood to pull back slightly, the flickering shadows of torchlight obscuring none of her beauty. Jaina fleetingly wonders if all of the women of Thedas are beautiful, the invasive thought brings a wry smile to her face and Leliana matches it. The woman’s wording tickles the back of her mind, and suddenly it comes to her. 

“So you’re a spy?”

The other woman’s smile sharpens and she cants her head in affirmation that Jaina only catches because she’s looking for it. “I was a bard who sought refuge in the Chantry and now I am a laysister who serves Andraste and the Maker. Andraste’s will, I  _ advise  _ the Inquisitor alongside Commander Rutherford, Seeker Pentaghast, and Ambassador Montilyet, providing information and insight on various affairs. Cullen was at your Harrowing, but his opinions on both of your futures change with his lyrium intake. I’m sure Cassandra and Josie would take my opinion as their own if it spares them time.” 

While Jaina sorts through her comments, attempting to pin names together, Leliana pauses to study their cell. She gets the feeling that little escapes this woman and is proven right when she glances at Sylvanas and she steps closer, her voice low enough that the guards can’t possibly hear. “I do so love your boots.” Jaina watches Sylvanas stiffen, her ears pin back at the tone implying there’s more to love than the boots. She looks quickly at Leliana’s and barely glimpses the hidden hilts of her own daggers. 

Leliana’s eyes spark with mischief, and with a knowing look in Jaina’s direction she turns from their cell. As she walks to the door she hesitates a moment, and turns, this time her eyes go to Sylvanas’s.

“You know,  _ demon _ ,” Leliana smothers the word in sarcasm but her tone is thoughtful, “you remind me of someone I once knew. All scowls and dry wit. Unfortunate really, it’s remarkable what can be caught with just a touch of honey.” Then she is gone as quietly as she came in.

Jaina cannot see Sylvanas’s face, but she hears the huff as her ears drop and she turns around. “Great, we’ve attracted the focused attention of a spy.”

Jaina shakes her head. “Not just a spy. If she’s the Inquisitor’s advisor, then she’s more than just that. And, she seems to be on our side...or at least halfway. She let you keep your daggers.”

Sylvanas furrows her brow. “Yes, she did, but to what end?”

It is strange seeing her like this, quiet and contemplative without being contemptuous. Jaina is so used to Sylvanas commanding a room and then subtly insulting everyone in it, that she’s always on her guard, waiting for the Banshee to snap and sneer. The elf has gone back to the corner where she usually sits, fiddling with her scraps of wood once again, so Jaina takes the moment to draw in a slow, deep breath. She still feels disconnected and a bit floaty, but the thread of anxiety running through her body makes her want to jump up and run, or rattle the bars of the cell while she screams at the top of her lungs. It is an uncomfortable dichotomy that sends one hand to her necklace and the other to her mouth to nibble at a nail. Her body and mind are desperate to feel the sharp white of arcane and the comfort that it brings. Does Sylvanas still want for magic? Does she dare ask?

Pushing up from the pallet draws Sylvanas’s eyes to her, but when she doesn’t immediately collapse they flick back to whatever she’s doing with the wood. Jaina stretches, holding on to the bars of the door with one hand to keep balance. Her shoulder is still very stiff, and her being sick and delirious for days have set back any progress she’d made with her range of motion. Anxious, bored, and physically uncomfortable, quite the combination. What she wouldn’t give for a book. 

“What are you doing?”

One of Sylvanas’s ears shifts toward her and reminded of the housecats that lived on all Kul Tiran ships, she almost laughs, biting it back at the last minute. How did she ever find this woman threatening? 

“Nothing, why?”

“Well you’ve spent hours over there in the corner playing with sticks.” She grimaces as she flexes her wrist, carefully pushing with her good hand to force it farther than she can move it alone. The conversation helps take her mind off the ache. “We don’t have any troops to strategize for if you’re making toy soldiers.”

“Proudmoore, we are not friends. There is no need for idle conversation.” 

The words are cutting, but her tone doesn’t bite with fangs. Jaina notices the change in her wording, from them being enemies to now, just not being friends. She smiles a little to herself; it feels like an achievement. She moves back to sit against the opposite wall, far enough away so it’s not obvious that she’s looking, but close enough that she can make out what Sylvanas has been doing the entire time they’ve been held here. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the chips strewn around the elf, each carved into a perfectly delicate feather.


	6. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late because yesterday was crazy and then 2 of my absolutely favorite stories updated, so I definitely had to read those, then I had to take my friend out for her birthday. (As out as possible while still social distancing.)  
> Anyway, this is a longer chapter with some DA lore for any WoW folx who aren't familiar.  
> Our ladies are getting closer!
> 
> (Also, we're starting to get into non-canonical mechanics...I'm aware that "that's not how magic works in ______". It's ok. Just pretend it is because this is just a fanfic.)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who supports us by reading and sharing your thoughts and theories in the comments!  
> ♥

Sylvanas is blaming this strange world, and the lack of arcane,  _ and _ the fact that this woman reminds her of Vereesa for her descent into fucking softie nursemaid. Normally she wouldn’t be moved at the sight of an Alliance member sick or wounded, but Jaina looked dead when they brought her back and something in her just,  _ ugh _ . 

She’s blaming the flash of fear and worry she had on the possibility of being trapped here in this wretched hold, not on Jaina’s moans and obvious misery. The mage has been in constant pain since they landed here, and Sylvanas has never heard her complain. It’s maddening, this burgeoning respect and compulsion to comfort. They are not friends; Sylvanas owes her nothing.

It disturbs her, nonetheless, that it was possibly concern that she felt while ensuring the human didn’t die from whatever they gave her for the Harrowing. She straightens up and the movement draws Jaina’s eyes to her. The mage has been hovering near her ever since the Inquisition spy came to talk to them. She obviously wants to keep prattling on about whatever she was going on about earlier. Sylvanas might as well get it over with.

“What?” She turns fully to look right into Jaina’s eyes. They widen and drop, and she can’t help but smirk before continuing. “You’ve been sitting here with your  _ fafa _ , debating whether or not you want to ask me something. So ask. Then we can be done with this.”

Jaina huffs, pendant zipping back and forth again before it stops and she clears her throat. “I miss the feeling of arcane and I was wondering if --”

“If I am still addicted?” Sylvanas cuts her off, shaking her head. “No, I don’t need arcane to exist.” There’s no need to tell the other woman that although she doesn’t  _ need _ it, she enjoys drawing the ambient arcane energy from Azeroth, that it’s pleasurable, that it recharges her quicker than taking the blood and life force of another living thing.

Her mind flashes back to their earlier contact, when her bare skin touched Jaina’s, how that arcane flowed from her. She almost shivers. She should not want to put her hands on Jaina Proudmoore any more than she already has. She has managed to avoid the temptation so far, “Instead of wasting time on nonsense, why don’t we try to think of a way out of here, hmm?”

“Wasting time? I don’t see how--”

The door opens and Sylvanas turns from Jaina to see who’s come to gawk at them now. She’s tired of feeling like she’s an exhibit in the Suramar Menagerie, an oddity for the seemingly endless parade of people that belong to this Inquisition. Sylvanas is a woman of action; being idle this long has filled her with an anxious energy that can’t be slaked by carving scraps of wood. She longs for her bow, arrows to fletch, Anya or Clea or Velonara to challenge her to spar, or shoot, or hunt.

“Finally, I get to meet the  _ bas saarebas _ and her  _ basvaarad _ !”

The doorframe is filled with a huge horned silhouette whose voice booms across the stone and wooden beams of the cells. Instead of remaining on her feet, Sylvanas drops to one knee, hands closer to her daggers than if she were standing. She looks over her shoulder to see that Jaina has pushed herself against the back wall, as far from the bars as she can get to give Sylvanas space should she need it. 

The silhouette ducks and turns to fit through the door, and the ambient light reveals an enormous, shirtless man with a single leather pauldron-like piece of armor, straps running across his chest. His horns span at least a meter across, making thresholds inconvenient. Sylvanas guesses his people had no hand in building the keep they are in after watching him struggle in the doorway. His scars and eye-patch would be more imposing if he didn’t have a huge grin on his face as he approaches their cell. 

“It seems he favors your style of impractical armor.” Sylvanas calls, sotto voce, back over her shoulder. Jaina just huffs in response.

“The Inquisitor’s off on a mission, but she told us that you are both permitted to walk to grounds as long as someone will guard you.” His voice continues the echo against the stone and her ears flick in irritation. 

“We  _ have _ guards.” Sylvanas growls and throws her arm out to indicate the two men throwing dice next to a fire. They haven’t bothered to look up since first checking to see who was coming in the door. “Why aren’t they taking us?”

The grin doesn’t leave his face as he confidently shoves both of his arms through the bars to lean heavily on the gate. Sylvanas bristles when he looks down at her and winks. 

“The Inquisitor doesn’t feel that your guards are quite,” he leans down and whispers conspiratorially, “capable enough to actually guard, and since the Inquisition is paying for my services whether they take me on missions or not, she wants me to do something to earn my fee. So here I am, your escort for the day. Iron Bull, they call me.” 

He opens his hand and offers it, elbow resting on a crossbar, completely unconcerned with his proximity. 

Sylvanas slowly stands, eyes searching Bull’s open, smiling face, but doesn’t reach to take his hand despite him seeming guileless. Her ears flatten as Jaina pushes past her and clasps his hand. 

“Jaina, although I’m sure you already know our names.” Jaina turns and points to her and she doesn’t bother hiding the irritation she feels. Jaina would happily walk into a den of wolves if one of them wagged its tail. “And that’s Sylvanas. You have to forgive her, she’s had to deal with fixing me when we first arrived in Thedas, and then again after the Harrowing. Helping an enemy faction drains what little good temper she has.”

The man just laughs, the sound thundering through the space and making her ears ring. “Pleased to meet you Lady Jaina, Sylvanas. Now why don’t we go enjoy the sunshine?”

After Iron Bull sorts their relative freedom out with the guards, they wander into the courtyard of the keep. She’d gazed longingly at Deathwhisper and her armor, propped in a corner of another locked cell, but the longing is tempered by the illusion of freedom after being caged for two weeks. Jaina had the audacity to push her out of the door with fingertips pressed between her shoulder blades, but dropped her hand at the warning growl.

He leads them to a tavern, Herald’s Rest, completely across the courtyard from the cells. It feels so good to move in a meaningful way that Sylvanas can ignore the stares and hushed gasps she gets from the refugees and members of the Inquisition alike. There’s a woman singing inside, her clear voice carries easily over the low buzz of conversation and the crackle of the fire in the hearth. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend they are in The Broken Tusk in Orgrimmar. The only thing missing is Gamon’s bellowing at whomever is trying to kill him. 

Bull walks through to the back of the tavern to a table along the rear wall, nodding his head to a young man as he passes.

“This is Krem Aclassi, one of the members of my Company that is currently serving the Inquisition.”

The man nods in turn, and saves a shy smile for Jaina. Sylvanas wants to roll her eyes, but she knows that the mage’s power isn’t just from arcane. There’s just as much power in a pretty face, and the Lord Admiral doesn’t want for beauty.

“Pull up a chair.” Iron Bull waves at the barmaid who nods and moves to the bar. “My treat.”

He settles his massive frame into the seat across from her and slumps his forearms across the table. She lets her eyes trail over him as he does the same to her. With his small, pointed ears, enormous horns, and an eyepatch, he looks vaguely like the result of a liaison between Baine and Lor’themar. She snorts before she can stop it, then schools her face back into impassivity. 

“So Solas says you’re undead.” His voice is low and he holds her eyes without so much as a flinch.

Sylvanas sees Jaina cringe out of the corner of her eye. She sighs and leans across the table, “He does, does he? I wonder who gave him that idea? You were at the judgement, you heard what I am.” 

Bull only smiles, his eyes leaving hers to look up at the server approaching with a plate of sliced bread and cheeses, and three mugs of beer. She leans back into her seat as the server places everything on the table. The woman turns to go after side-eyeing her the entire time. At least she didn’t hesitate to come to the table. Sylvanas pushes her beer between Jaina and Iron Bull. They can fight over it.

“Solas, Dorian, and Vivienne are all very talented  _ bas saarebas _ ...”

“Bas saarebas?” Jaina’s curiosity is piqued. “You called us that back in the prison.” 

Sylvanas settles back in her seat and lets Jaina’s inquisitive nature drive the conversation.  _ Perfect. _ She prefers to observe since there’s so much more to be learned when people forget you’re watching. 

“Non-Qunari mages.” Bull waves his open palm from his head to his feet with a flourish. “I’m Qunari,  _ bas saarebas _ is Qunlat, our language.”

“What did you call Sylvanas?”

“ _ Basvaard _ ? Mage-handler.” He gestures toward Sylvanas as if it should have been obvious.

She swallows a snicker, fully aware that the implication that Jaina must defer to  _ her _ will immediately draw the mage’s ire. She debates between the entertainment of watching the Lord Admiral go head to head against this clueless mountain of a man, or pushing him for more information when Jaina makes the decision for her.

“ _ Mage handler _ ?” The mage is obviously offended and hell hath no fury. An angry Jaina Proudmoore is a sight to behold, especially when that anger isn’t aimed at her. All flushed cheeks and sparking eyes-- _ delicious _ . To see her pointing that fire at someone else for once, well, it’s tempting to sit back and enjoy, but there simply isn’t enough time to let this play out for her amusement. 

She notes the flash of discomfort in his face and files it away for later. They need to know more about the land they’re in, and while knowing about its people is important as well, there’s something to be said about the easy comprehensibility of geography versus culture. He’s probably breaking protocol by having them here while the Inquisitor is away. Will he risk it again? There’s obviously dissension in the ranks if Solas is giving differing information to the Inquisitor from what the spy and the mercenary seem to know. There’s a tightness in her chest this time when she thinks about Baine and Saurfang and what had seemed like treachery may have been something different. 

She clears her throat. “While I’m pleased to see that Lady Proudmoore is able to direct her anger at someone other than myself, I’m guessing that you’ve not brought us here to argue cultural semantics.”

“Shut-up, Sylvanas. You’re not my  _ handler--” _

“She’s right. We don’t have unlimited time to talk. The Inquisitor, Seeker Pentaghast, and Madame de Fer are in Val Royeaux recruiting for the Inquisition, and I don’t anticipate them being there all day. While they are away, Solas wants me to tell you about Thedas, at least its current situation.” He pushes the plate of bread and cheese towards them and she, in turn, aims a pointed look at Jaina. The mage has lost weight since they arrived here, her freckled cheekbones far more prominent than usual. Jaina picks up some of each, nibbling as he continues. 

“The history of Thedas is long. For convenience’s sake, I’ll give you the low-down on the Chantry version of Thedosian history.” Idly, his fingers trace the shape of a burning eye on the table. “The first time people tore a hole in the Veil and entered the Fade, it brought about the start of a really shitty series of events. The Chantry believed that for their hubris, the Maker abandoned this world and cursed the invaders to with the Taint, making them the first Darkspawn.” His expression soured, and he took a swig of his ale before continuing.

“These Darkspawn and their Taint eventually found their way to an Old God, a fuck-all powerful spirit-dragon thing, sleeping deep beneath the surface of the earth. The Taint corrupted the Old God, and gave it quite the rude awakening. So the now corrupt and awake Old God became the first Archdemon, the turning point for Thedas to fall into a Blight--a full-scale, coordinated Darkspawn invasion of the surface.

“Is Thedas in the midst of a Blight?” Jaina interrupts, food forgotten on the plate before her.

“Jury’s still out on that.” He hesitates a moment as if deciding what is wise to guard and wise to share. “Back at Haven, we fought what we think was one of the individuals who breached the Fade. He was accompanied by a dragon, and our Warden contacts report hearing the Calling, but at the same time Darkspawn movement has been low, beneath levels we’d associate with a Blight.”

Talking of whispers and Old Gods and dragons that destroy the world makes her uneasy. There are so many things similar between this world and Azeroth. “Why are you telling us this?”

The man looks straight at her and leans in unflinchingly. “The Chantry’s leader was killed in an explosion that tore a hole in the sky. We thought the Lady Trevelyan, the Inquisitor, to be our savior. On her hand she wields the Anchor and with it the ability to close the Rifts. She is a fearsome warrior; she has the charisma to bend crowns and crowds to her will, but she is also cold, and merciless, and her scorched-earth agenda against the mages is dangerously shortsighted. At Haven, we thought we lost her to Corypheus and his dragon, and then we hear from Solas that a mage with an anchor and an  _ undead elf _ dropped from the sky. Is it a sign?” 

He takes a gulping swallow of beer and wipes his mouth on his arm. “Leliana and Cassandra wonder if you’ve been sent by Andraste to make up for the damage the Inquisitor bestows in her name. Solas wonders if you’re the key to defeating Corypheus and his corrupted army. Dorian and Madame de Fer say nothing except you shouldn’t die by the Inquisition’s hands, but their status as living mages is too perilous for them to wonder in front of the Inquisitor. I don’t get paid to wonder, but I am curious and unlike our host, I don’t turn away potential allies. I enjoy living, so if you two are the key to ending Corypheus, then you need to know.”

“My anchor doesn’t close anything.” Jaina’s fingers are wrapped around it, rubbing slowly against the smooth surface.

Iron Bull only shrugs. Sylvanas doesn’t bother to hide her irritation. “It sounds like you have decided on mutiny in the favor of two people you know nothing about.” At least those who betrayed her knew who they were working with, a sign that Saurfang and Baine were just traitors, not stupid.

“Not at all. We’re not looking to oust the Inquisitor. We’re hoping to convince her that you both are needed in our fight. But first, we had to see how willing you would be to help us.”

“Who’s we?” Sylvanas needs to know the depth of the division in the Inquisitor’s ranks. If the woman feels threatened by her and Jaina, they’re already as good as dead. Given an opportunity to help, a position in their army, she would be back in her armor with Deathwhisper in her hands, but who would be looking to put a knife in her back?

“Leliana, Dorian, Solas, me and my group. We need an archer or someone’s who’s good with two blades. The opportunity for one came up, but--let’s say the Inquisitor wasn’t interested in working with her. Dorian and Solas walk a very fine line being essentially apostate mages, so they keep their heads down as much as they can. It helped Lady Jaina’s case immensely that Madame de Fer also defended her given her status as a circle mage who approves of everything the Inquisitor does. Commander Rutherford is also a staunch supporter of Lady Trevelyan, , as well as Blackwall, our resident Grey Warden. Varric, Cassandra, and Josephine are neutral parties. All three are loyal and duty-bound, but have spoke up against your executions.”

Jaina draws a sharp breath but Sylvanas isn’t surprised. They are currently on borrowed time and they must prove themselves essential to the Inquisition’s cause. 

“I would fight.” Her fingers itch for her bow and her shoulders ache for the comforting weight of her armor, but she will not speak for Jaina whose own fingers and soul long for something intangible. She does not want to look at her, or to sway her decision. It is hers and hers alone to make.

“I--I too will do what I can. I’m neither an archer nor blade-wielder except for fancy swordwork for court.” Jaina speaks softly and Sylvanas can’t stop the surge of pity for her. She, herself, despises feeling useless and the implied weakness that comes with that feeling. 

Iron Bull looks at her quizzically. “But you’re bas saarebas, you have a saartoh-bas.” He hesitates, feeling around for the word. “A staff--I’ve seen it. You can heal or cast offensive spells...”

Sylvanas can feel Jaina’s eyes on her, making sure they’re on the same page, looking to see if she agrees with what Jaina wants to share. This was supposed to be their safety net; Jaina keeps her “bound” by magic and she attacks or defends on command. Mutual protection. She sighs and nods. Both Iron Bull and Leliana had openly implied that they knew she wasn’t a bound demon. Solas is hopefully trusting the right people.

“I cannot cast spells here.”

Bull sits back, his hand rubbing his chin. “Well, that is… an unpleasant but not unexpected surprise.”

“You knew I couldn’t cast?” Jaina asks, incredulous. 

“I had a suspicion,” he says easily, leaning back in his chair. “Your posture, stance, the way you react to things--they’re all tells of someone, ah…  _ incapacitated _ .” 

A brief look of irritation flashes across Jaina’s face, but she smothers it into non-existence. “But I could learn. I can feel the magic in this land, I just don’t know how -- to twist it, to weave it into something useful. I could learn if someone were to teach me.” Jaina keeps her voice low, but she is earnest, leaning forward in her chair, eyes bright. Sylvanas understands the need to be useful, the control it brings back. “Solas could, or Dorian, or even Vivienne if that would be best.”

“Oh no, not the First Enchantress.” He chokes down a burst of laughter. “Solas would probably be your best choice. I know little about magic. I prefer to be face to face with whatever I’m fighting--not that mages don’t have their place in battle. I’ll speak to him later. Now, however, I think we should get you both back to your cell. The Inquisitor will be back soon and I have much to discuss with Solas and Leliana.”

They are quiet on the walk back. Iron Bull leaves them at the door, pointing to his horns and then the doorway. “It’s just easier if I say out here. Someone will be here to escort you again tomorrow.” He pushes a small bundle into Jaina’s hands and throws an irreverent salute at Sylvanas. She just nods at him. She doesn’t trust anyone here yet, at least not with her facsimile of life, and even though he appears to be as much on their side as someone could be, there’s always room for a blade in the back when your guard is down.

The dicing has stopped, the guards who were here when they left have rotated to other duties. The two that are here now are more dutiful: one is polishing a stack of helmets while the other sharpens blades. They both look up when the door opens; the one sharpening just points the sword to their open cell. After Jaina came back half-dead from the Harrowing, the guards haven’t been nearly as intimidated by them. She smiles. Being underestimated has led to a number of victories, and has allowed her the upper-hand in so many situations.

“I know what you’re thinking, Sylvanas. No. We’re right on the verge of being out of this cell, of being trusted.”

She just rolls her eyes. “I didn’t become Warchief of the Horde by being a naive fool. Look, they’ve decided we’ve earned a table and chairs. Just need a bed frame, and they’d be admitting you’re human and not some animal.”

They walk to the cell and Jaina pushes the bars closed behind her. She then moves to the closest chair, sets the little bundle of cheese and bread on the table and sits down, slumping forward to pillow her head on her crossed arms. Sylvanas slides out the chair across from her and pushes her thumbnail against the wooden top, testing its give. Soft enough to indent the surface, all she needs to settle the energy bursting inside her. Jaina’s head turns in her arms and Sylvanas can hear her murmur into the table’s surface. “I hate being helpless and useless and beholden.”

Sylvanas understands that sentiment on a primal level. There’s a stab of pity in her chest but she crushes it as quickly as it comes. Jaina barely wants her help and certainly doesn’t want her pity. Maybe now would be a good time to test out her theory that they work like converters for each other. She is definitely doing this for research and not because that sip of pure arcane is so tempting, and definitely not because feeling that energy again would be a comfort for the other woman as well. 

“Do you remember when I set your wrist?”

Jaina doesn’t even lift her head, she just shakes it on her folded arms. Her voice is still muffled against the table. “I’ve tried to shove everything about that night out of my head. You were awful and so was the pain.”

She doesn’t know why this observation stings, as correct as it is. Pushing her nail into the table’s surface, she begins to draw as she talks. “You deserved me being awful. You’d just tried to kill me by shoving me into a portal. Plus, I don’t recall you being particularly pleasant yourself.” She turns her voice into an eerie mimicry of the mage’s and singsongs the Thalassian that the mage had spit at her at their campsite, “ _ Ama noral’arkhana, no noral’diel… _ ”

That gets Jaina’s attention. Head up, she sits back in her chair, suspicion in the squint of her eyes. “Why do you want to know what I remember from then?”

She keeps her own head bowed, eyes on the grooves she’s etching into the tabletop. “Because I wanted to see if you remembered when I touched you--if you felt the same thing I did.”

Jaina stiffens in her chair, but she pretends not to notice, keeping her attention on the lines emerging under her thumb.

“I do remember a second of that, before you started moving the bones. I could feel my magic for a moment. Do you think that’s because we were touching? What did you feel?”

She shrugs as nonchalantly as she can before looking up into Jaina’s hopeful face. The other woman has pushed herself to the edge of her chair, leaning forward in her eagerness, not a hint of the dislike that tends to shadow her face when she’s talking to her.

“I felt arcane. Azeroth arcane. None of the muddy magic that’s floating around us now.” She stops her hands from their etching and folds them in her lap. Looking down at them, she wonders if the mage can get past her revulsion of touching an undead. “If you could feel your magic, maybe you can spellcast again?”

Silence falls between them, louder than their previous words. Her ears tilt at the rustling from the other side of the table and she looks up to see Jaina has laid her arm on its surface, palm up, eyes holding hers in challenge.

She hesitates, mentally trying to prepare herself for the rush that hit her last time, swearing that she will let go the moment Jaina says or does something that shows the contact is no longer wanted. Jaina’s fingers curl gently, asking, without words, for her hand. She grasps the edge of the table with one hand and lifts the other, hovering over Jaina’s outstretched fingers. She searches the mage’s face, looking for even a shadow of fear or doubt, but those blue, blue eyes are shining in anticipation.

“If either of us says to let go, let go.” She wants to make it clear that one doesn’t lose their bodily autonomy for the benefit of the other.

Jaina nods and wiggles her fingers again. “Just give me your hand.”

She did not prepare enough for the burst of pleasure and pull of arcane that sparks as soon as her fingers tangle with Jaina’s. She sucks in a breath completely out of reflex, but otherwise holds herself completely still. Her eyes shoot open at Jaina’s cry of pleasure; the mage’s fingers tightening around hers trying to pull her closer.

“Oh tides, Sylvanas.” Jaina gasps out, eyes hooded, voice indecently and probably unintentionally sultry. “This is nothing like I remember.”

She smiles, unable to stop the corners of her mouth from turning up. She likes the way her name sounds falling from Jaina’s lips like that, and their connection just feels so good. “Can you cast anything?” Even she sounds breathless, fighting the urge to pull the arcane through the mage is taking every bit of her concentration. The flow between them is slow but balanced; neither pushing or pulling the energy in either direction.

“I need more.” Jaina sounds every bit like a Farstrider just returning home to the Sunwell, desperate for the comfort and pleasure it brings. The mage’s hand scrabbles for more solid contact with her own, throwing back her head when they are palm to palm, fingers wrapped around each other’s wrist. 

She brings her other hand up from where it was clutching the edge of the table and wraps it around the back of Jaina’s. The flow between them increases, and Jaina moans before snapping her mouth shut. They are drifting into dangerous territory but Sylvanas finds she doesn’t care. Jaina looks so alluring with her head thrown back and her neck bared, and she, herself, hasn’t felt this good since before her death. Loathe to end their connection despite the voice in her ear telling her to let go, she tightens her hands around Jaina’s and purrs. “So take it.”


	7. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!  
> And we're chugging right along!
> 
> Our ladies are working on finding a happy medium and on not being so reactive.  
> Key words: working on.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Once, as a child, Derek took her to the Midsummer Fire Festival, carrying her six year old self on his shoulders while their harried mother stayed home with a fussy Tandred. She’d given Derek enough pocket money to entertain them for the whole afternoon. Jaina was thrilled at having her brother all to herself, or so she’d thought. At fourteen, Derek’s attention was split between keeping her happy with sweets and fried dough, and trying to catch the eye of Lorena Blackwood. 

Disappointed, Jaina had wandered off at some point, drawn to a colorful tent draped with beaded fringe and pieces of sea glass and shiny metals that chimed in the wind. A beautiful dark haired elf stood at the awning asking to read the palms of any passers-by. Jaina had stood watching shyly in a shadowed alleyway until the woman called her over with a curled finger and a promise to tell her fortune. She’d happily complied, swinging her legs on the seat and staring in the crystal ball until a very frightened Derek had yanked her from her perch and dragged her home, crying.

She can no longer remember what the soothsayer had said to her about her future but if she had told her that, at some point in her middle age she would be in a prison cell, in another world, with her hand clasped between those of the Horde’s Warchief, begging for more contact, well, she would have laughed herself sick, even then at six. She’d be laughing now at the ridiculousness of this entire situation if it didn’t feel so good, but oh, Tidemother,  _ it does _ .

When Sylvanas, voice sunk into husky dual-tone, had told her to take what she wanted, she did. She  _ pulled _ and like a thread of liquid lightning, the arcane flowed through the Banshee’s body, pouring into the emptiness that’s left her feeling hollow since they’d arrived. Sylvanas had closed her eyes, an ecstatic smile on her face, and  _ pushed _ until she was full, the energy spilling over a sparking halo around their joined hands. 

“ _ Anar’alah _ , let go before you burst.” Sylvanas had managed to move one of her hands to grasp her forearm over her shirt trying to push her away, but her own hands still clutch at the other between them. “Jaina! Let go!”

She fights her for a moment, frost crackling from her hands up the elf’s arms to the elbow before she realizes exactly what’s happening. She yanks her hands back, groaning at the sharp severing of their connection, and her eyes jump up to Sylvanas’s, taking in the concerned red. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting it to be like that.”

Sylvanas just shakes her head, dismissing her apology. “I almost lost myself as well. At least we know it works though.” She flexes her fist and thin pieces of ice fall to the table. “Can you cast anything now that we’re no longer touching?”

The arcane energy still hums inside her, not as strongly as before, but it’s enough to make something. She holds out her hand and concentrates, the blue-white arcane twists and spins into a miniature blizzard, complete with swirling clouds and blowing snow, wholly contained in her palm. A child’s trick that should have taken little to no effort leaves her feeling drained; she is hollow and wanting once again.

“That took everything.” She sighs and winces at the obvious despondency in the exhale. Sylvanas makes a sound almost like a chuckle and when she jerks her head up, expecting to see the typical mocking smirk, she’s surprised to see a genuine smile. It changes the elf’s face completely; Jaina had heard that the former Ranger General was quite the charmer when she still lived in Quel’thalas. Vereesa had once complained that when the boys made mischief and then turned their sweet faces and doleful eyes to her, she couldn’t do a thing to punish them-- they were just like Sylvanas. Jaina had never before been able to reconcile Ranger General Sylvanas or Vereesa’s sister Sylvanas to the merciless Banshee Queen until now. The burn of those eyes softened to warmth and lips turned up in a smile instead of twisted in a sneer.

“Oh.” She blurts out before thinking, still basking in the arcane afterglow. “You’re so pretty.”

She curses herself when the smile vanishes, and Sylvanas stands so abruptly from the chair that it tips backwards, crashing to the ground. 

“That’s not what I meant, I’m sorry.” She rises as well, hands waving as she scrabbles for the right thing to say, “Wait, no, I meant you were pretty, I’m just sorry--”

“Stop talking before you say something else you’ll regret.” It’s a low growl, but Jaina swears she can hear it gilded with hurt. 

She shuts up. 

What she really wants to do, though, is tell her that it wasn’t a mistake and that she’d never before seen Sylvanas unguarded and smiling; that she is beautiful like the gathering of stormclouds on the horizon or the iridescence of a carrion crow in the sun. Beauty hidden in dark, tumultuous danger.

She also wants to ask Sylvanas to touch her again.

It’s shameful to want something so badly, especially if nothing bad comes to her for the want of it. She thinks for a moment of the Nightborne, and her curiosity and research into arcane addiction. First she’d questioned Kalec who steered her to Stellagosa who hesitantly recounted the stories she had from her lover’s time as Nightfallen. Valtrois, hunched and drawn, trembling from starvation and from the fear of becoming mindless withered. Healed now, Stellagosa told her that Valtrois and the other Nightfallen still suffered from nightmares and anxiety from their trauma. She feels too guilty to ask Sylvanas now. She can suffer simple discontent when others suffered so much more.

She needs to apologize for something, or this guilt will swallow her whole. Shame for wanting what she doesn’t need, for using her enemy to get it, and for snatching contentment from a woman who doesn’t seem to have known happiness in decades. If Sylvanas shuts her down again, so be it, at least this time she knows to be more articulate. 

She gets up and walks along the table to pick up the fallen chair, when Sylvanas’s engraved drawing on the table’s surface catches her eye. A perfect snowflake. Delicate, multi-branched fractals, indelibly pressed into the wood. She runs her fingers across their texture as she rights the chair and pushes it under the table. Sylvanas, back in her corner again, doesn’t bother to look up. First the collection of wooden feathers, now the snowflake. Jaina wonders what other talents the Warchief has.

“I didn’t know you were an artist.” Something, anything to break the silence, no matter if it puts her back in the line of fire of Sylvanas’s sniping. She wants to see the Banshee drop her mask again, to catch another glimpse of the ephemeral smile and contentment.

“Why would you?” Sylvanas is back to mocking, but she refuses to let that tone have its intended effect. Instead, she steps closer and doesn’t flinch at the scowl her proximity brings.

“One would think SI:7 might have noted that in your file.”

Sylvanas smirks, “They obviously didn’t think to note the fact that I don’t need arcane anymore either. Perhaps The Shiv is losing his touch. Such a shame. Do tell, Lord Admiral, what  _ does _ SI:7 say about me?”

She is getting used to Sylvanas’s ability to switch tones, from petulant to purring, in a single breath. It no longer makes her head spin and she has learned not to bother with trying to match her. She mimics counting on her fingers as she recites what she can remember from the Banshee Queen’s file. “That you’re vain, self-serving, ruthless, and mercurial. That your faction leaders don’t trust you but your Rangers would follow you into true death. That you’re compassionless. Hot-headed at your best and murderous at your worst.” 

As she speaks Sylvanas’s smirk grows, flashing fangs by the time she reaches the end to take a breath. She is saving the best for last though, absolutely certain it will return that delighted smirk back to a scowl. The beginning of the file was put together by Renzik, and while he is a talented spy, he possessed mostly surface thoughts about the Warchief. She’s also sure he let his latent misogyny and anti-undead stance taint his observations. The rest of her file was completed by Valeera Sanguinar, at Jaina’s request, curious if the unaligned rogue would see things differently. She did.

“But,” This time, Jaina flashes her own smirk, lifting her eyebrows in challenge, “Further research found fault in some initial characterizations in the dossier. The Warchief is empathetic and caring towards the Forsaken and Sin’dorei, valuing input from advisors of those factions. She provided support and allies to the Shal’dorei after they were shunned by their Kaldorei cousins and has taken the counsel of the First Arcanist. She is close to her rangers, especially Nathanos Blightcaller and Ranger Captain Velonara.” She’ll save what she knows about Sylvanas and her sisters for another time.

The scowl that she was certain would mar Sylvanas’s delicate features is surprisingly absent. Instead, her red gaze glows with what might be begrudging respect. “The cub sent someone different after Renzik, did he? Perhaps he is more his father’s son than I thought.”

“At my suggestion.”

Sylvanas raises an eyebrow. “Well now, aren’t you full of surprises? Reznik hates me for tolerating Gallywix, and for being undead, but most of all for not being born with a dick. I knew his intel would be slanted. Leave it to another woman to figure that out. ”

Jaina smiles, accepting the compliment with a demure tilt of her head. “Can I sit here?” When she points at the ground across from her, which would put her next to Sylvanas, the other woman just shrugs.

“We need to talk about before. Like adults.” Jaina folds herself down near the neatly piled wooden feathers on the dirty floor. Neither of them have been offered an opportunity to bathe or wash their clothes; Jaina regrets wearing so much white. Sylvanas looks much more kempt in her dark colors and for a moment she ponders what she, herself, would look like in burgundy. She shakes her head to clear it; she’s never worn anything but Dalaran purple, Alliance blue, and white. When she looks up, the look Sylvanas is giving her is just like Tandred’s you’re-being-a-bossy-cow glare that she almost laughs. It must be universal to anyone with an older sister. “And not adults of enemy factions. Also, before you remind me, no we don’t have to be friends to talk civilly.”

She sees Sylvanas’s lips press tightly in a line, but she thinks it’s to stop a reluctant smile rather than in anger. She doubts the Warchief has her own words flung back at her on a regular basis. Despite Sylvanas’s disdain and rigid authority, Jaina thinks the other woman enjoys the challenge of verbal sparring, if her quiverful of pithy one-liners is any indication. 

“If there’s anything I learned in Dalaran, it’s that mastery comes from practice.” She takes a deep breath, suddenly unsure as to how to ask Sylvanas Windrunner, the Banshee Queen and Warchief of the Horde, to hold her hands, as they both balance on a razor’s edge of heady pleasure. It’s intimate in a way that Jaina cannot describe and the thought of practicing something like that leaves her at a loss for words.

“So you’re proposing that we practice holding hands?” Sylvanas drawls, smirk rising on her lips.

“No, I’m proposing we practice what we did so that we can figure out how it works so I can get us back to Azeroth where we can go back to killing each other.” 

This time Sylvanas can’t stop the outright grin, all glinting fangs. “Ah, Lord Admiral, now you’re speaking my language. Tal anu’men’o nah.”

She just shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Even if Sylvanas is speaking in jest, she can’t stop the bitterness that flows out of her. “Death to all who oppose you, eh? I suppose that’s how it’s been for the past couple of years, I mean why change now? It’s not like you found out that some members of the Alliance aren’t horrible and deserve to live in peace.”

“One. One member of the Alliance isn’t  _ so _ horrible. If only that one member was representative of their whole faction.” She can feel the burn of Sylvanas’s ember eyes against her skin, so she takes a deep breath to swallow the anger that flared at her words. She will be calm, she will not let Sylvanas puppet her through her emotions.

“Don’t you dare say we haven’t tried.” She keeps her voice low and controlled, despite the running loop of Teldrassil’s ashes, Saurfang’s limp body, the gazes of betrayed Forsaken behind her eyes.

“It’s always been all or nothing with the Alliance.” 

Jaina’s gaze darts up at the reply. Sylvanas’s voice has gone completely flat, no sneer, no purr, nothing. The fiery burn from earlier is snuffed out; her eyes look hollow and haunted -- mournful. Then she realizes Jaina is looking at her and her face drops back into impassivity once more. 

She files the moment away for later. “I need a lot of mana to make a portal. So we’re going to have to start off with little things first, just to get control over-” She loses her words for a minute, unable to explain exactly what it is she needs to control. The distracting pleasure, the aching want? She can feel Sylvanas’s eyes searching her face as she struggles to finish her thought.

“--the overwhelmingness of it all.” She finishes lamely.

The look Sylvanas gives her is completely inscrutable. She only nods and holds out her hand. “We should try just one hand for now. It might be easier.”

Jaina reaches out slowly, bracing herself for the onslaught of power. She gently touches the pads of her fingers to Sylvanas’s cool, callused ones. She tries imagining a wall between the two of them, door shut, blocking anything that wanted in. She realizes it’s working when Sylvanas’s eyes jump to her in surprise. There is still a pleasure here, but it is subtle - muted - a promise of what will be when she opens the door.

“Don’t push this time, no matter what I say.” She peers at the other woman through half-lidded eyes. Sylvanas nods once, and curls her fingers inward, tucking Jaina’s within her own. She smiles appreciatively, and Sylvanas nods again, face solemn and unreadable. She takes a deep breath and opens the door in her mind just a sliver, the sudden stream of arcane making her exhale shaky. Sylvanas’s fingers tighten around her own, but there is no surge of power with it.

“I’m going to -- to pull.” She struggles to control her voice while fighting the urge to shove the door wide open and beg Sylvanas to push everything at her. Sylvanas squeezes her fingers once, and she remembers their wordless communication from when she was sick.  _ Yes _ .  _ Pull _ . So she does. She pushes open the door in her mind, expecting a flood of arcane to rush into her like before, but there is nothing. She tries pulling at the thin thread that connects them, but nothing happens. Her eyes fly open at Sylvanas’s gasp and groan. The tendons in the elf’s neck are pulled taut and her teeth are bared in a grimace, red gaze burning. Jaina tries to let go of her hand; it’s obvious that Sylvanas is experiencing this differently than last time, but when she does, Sylvanas shakes her head and holds her fingers tighter, moving their hands into the same position as last time - palm to palm, fingers clasped around wrists.

“Wait.” Sylvanas gasps out, panting although she has no need to breathe. “I was trying to see if I could stop you from taking it. Don’t pull again for a minute. Do what you did at the start to stop the automatic rush.”

She nods at the request, firming up her imagined wall and closing the door between them. Sylvanas tightens her fingers around her wrist, signaling her to start again. She cracks the door, arcane sliding through the opening like sunshine. She basks in it for a moment, closing her eyes but mindful of the tension in Sylvanas’s grip. “Stop holding it, let me pull.”

Sylvanas squeezes again and sighs, blissful. Jaina suddenly feels the full flow of arcane try to pour through the small crack that she’s holding open. She takes a deep breath and catches her lip between her teeth, then pushes open the barrier that blocks most of the stream. It floods into her and she delights again in the raw power. This time she has the awareness to cast immediately, and at the strong draw she makes on the thread to do so, Sylvanas stifles a moan.  _ Mirror image is simple and harmless enough.  _ She opens her eyes and sees Sylvanas looking between her and the two mute clones of her sitting across from them. The red in her eyes shrunken to pinpoints, she grins in the pleasure of their connection and Jaina’s success. 

Regretfully, she stops pulling and closes off the flow in her mind. As she loosens her grip and pulls her hand away, she lets her fingers lightly slide along Sylvanas’s palm. While the sharp bite of arcane is comforting, there is something to be said about the touch of another person, even if the other person is Sylvanas Windrunner.

“If I would have known that this practice would end with me having to share a cell with three Jaina Proudmoores, I would never have agreed to it.” Sylvanas’s eyes still glow like banked embers but her words don’t carry their usual bite. 

Jaina doesn’t answer. She’s sure the illusions will disappear in a moment; she’s not putting in any effort or wasting the residual arcane in keeping them here. Instead, she focuses her attention on her hands and the pattern she’d traced on the table. With the last bit of mana humming through her, she pulls whatever water she can from the air and forms a crystalline copy of the snowflake Sylvanas had carved in the tabletop. It will melt if she holds it much longer, maring the fine details, so she hands it to Sylvanas with a genuine smile.

“Thank you.” She hopes her sincerity shines through, because she is truly grateful -- for figuring out a mana source, for taking care of her when she needed it, for letting her see the pieces of Sylvanas that the other woman hides behind the Banshee Queen and Warchief. They will need hours of practice before Jaina will be able to cast an effective offensive spell, much less a portal. A simple spell like mirror image took almost everything she had, but even that was more than the mini-blizzard from before. Already she is able to do more, better, stronger. She lays down on the pallet with a smile; Sylvanas humming quietly from the corner as she drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So happy to have all of you with us. I have to remind myself that N and I are a few chapters ahead and not to spoil anything in replying to comments. I LOVE spoilers because I'm a nutty ball of anxiety and knowing what's going to happen gives me the calm I need to focus on what I'm reading. If you're like me and need spoilers to enjoy something, come chat with me on Tumblr (same name as here!) I'll hook you up as long as you can keep it secret for those who don't like them.
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has read and commented and/or left kudos and/or bookmarked and/or subscribed! You make our hearts full sharing this (MANY time zones different) labor of love with you all.   
> ♥


	8. Allies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two days late, I'm so sorry! Had some stuff come up.  
> We're getting into the swing of things with this chap. It's more fun to write now!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is reading. We appreciate all the kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks, and comments. There's nothing more fun than chatting with you all in the comments section!
> 
> ♥

Impatience isn’t usually something she’s ever remembered dealing with in her many centuries of existence. For what reason would someone who is basically immortal have to be impatient? Yet, here she is, leg bouncing as she presses another snowflake into the surface of the table, waiting for whomever will escort them out today. The more arcane she gives and takes, the more frequently she gets like this -- she doesn’t know what to do with her hands when they’re not in Jaina’s.

Loathe she is to admit it, Jaina was right about practicing. Over the past couple of weeks, they have managed to perfect the flow of arcane between them, with Jaina able to cast multiple small spells in one sitting within the confines of their cell. To avoid drawing the attention of their guards, the mage had stuck to mirror image mostly, at one point there were eleven copies of her packed in the corner as she had tried both casting and maintaining, her blue eyes glowing and both of their hands clasped together. Sylvanas refuses to acknowledge how much she looks forward to this practice time. It would be a weakness to want something that someone can take away and she would welcome true death before giving Jaina Proudmoore that kind of power over her. 

She wonders who will be coming today. 

Iron Bull is their most frequent escort since the Inquisitor favors her own battleaxe and Cassandra’s broadsword over his when she goes out to do whatever they do when they leave. Sylvanas appreciates his honesty and his respect for the both of them without ever having seen what they can do. She enjoys his quick mind and the comfortable repartee they’ve developed--he reminds her a bit of Nathanos, when he was alive and good-humored. He is an unapologetic flirt as well; once she realized he flirted with everyone, all the time, she lowered her hackles and joined in the banter, as bawdy and brash as she would be with her rangers. What she isn’t ready to admit is that she does it mostly to savor the stunned silence and delicate flush that pinks the Lord Admiral’s cheeks and darkens the freckles sprinkled across her nose. Bull had roared with laughter the first time the usually loquacious mage sat, speechless, her wide eyes bouncing back and forth between the two of them as they traded filthy pick up lines in their respective languages. Sylvanas had hid her smile behind a flash of fangs.

Leliana has also brought them out to the courtyard, but her guided tours of Skyhold are quieter, her observations and conversation not as guileless as those of the hulking Qunari. The Chantry sister catches everything, and Sylvanas isn’t as open with her. Jaina chatters away, but she’s noticed that the mage keeps to inane topics like fashion and foods. Leliana likes to sit or walk near the gardens where she has been teaching them about the different plants and their uses. She has only spoken directly to Sylvanas once, asking to see the stiletto sheathes in her boots, claiming that her own hampered ankle movement. Sylvanas relented only after Jaina’s pointed stare and exasperated sigh.

Solas and Dorian weren’t permitted to escort them alone, so their visits were limited to chairs outside the bars of their cell, one of them talking loud enough to drown out the fact that the other was trying to tutor Jaina in Thedosian magic. During these visits, Sylvanas endured question after question about elven history and comparative linguistics from an insatiably curious Solas. She’s grown used to incessant questions -- between Jaina, Iron Bull, and Solas, it’s possible that Sylvanas has spoken more over the last four weeks than in the past two years as Warchief. They have been here a month, and neither her nor the Lord Admiral are dead.

The metallic screech of hinges jolts her from her thoughts. She stands, brushing her fingers against the snowflake that morphed into a Forsaken crest as she daydreamed. “Her” half of the table is almost completely covered in engravings -- mostly snowflakes, because they make Jaina smile, but here and there amongst the blizzard are crows, skulls, and feathers, so many feathers. When the silhouette pushes through the doorway, she’s shocked to see their escort today is the Inquisitor herself. 

“Proudmoore.” 

Jaina blinks sleepily from the bed they were given last week. Having proper furniture has helped the mage; fitful sleeping on the stone floor of the cell left her stiff and achy, slowing the healing of her wrist and shoulder and darkening the circles around her eyes. Since the bed arrived, Jaina catnaps off and on throughout the day when they’re locked in. Sylvanas is pretty sure that this is the most sleep the other woman has had in the last three years. She’s a completely different kind of beautiful with her bright blue eyes nearly free from the shadowed circles, not that Sylvanas notices, of course. The rest has also improved her spellcasting stamina; she’s able to hold illusions for longer and once managed to blink them both across the cell.

Sylvanas lowers her voice but keeps her eyes on the woman talking to the guards who jumped to attention as soon as they saw who’d entered. “You need to get up. The Inquisitor is here.”

Jaina’s eyes go round. She throws her legs over the edge of the bed and pads over, barefooted, to where Sylvanas is standing with her arms behind her back. Jaina stands slightly behind her and cranes her neck to see over Sylvanas’s shoulder. “Why is she here?”

Sylvanas just shrugs. They’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Lady Trevelyan since the judgement. Iron Bull has told them that the Inquisitor frequently travels across Ferelden or Orlais, battling demons and closing the rifts from which they emerge. Dorian and Solas have implied that demons aren’t her only target, and Leliana’s garden lectures and shoe endorsements never include mention of her leader. No other members are given prisoner detail. Although Bull has pointed out Grand Enchantress Vivienne’s balcony window and Varric’s post just inside the main keep’s entrance, neither person has ever been tasked with their escort.

Heavy footfalls make her pin back her ears. Only the spy walks with any sort of stealth. She should expect that Trevelyan, a woman who demands the attention of the room, would stomp everywhere she goes. She hears a quiet rustle of fabric behind her, then the soft touch of Jaina’s hand, first along her sleeve - alerting her to the mage’s intentions- and then it slips into her own. She fights to keep her face neutral as their connection flares then settles to a low hum. While they’ve perfected regulating the flow of mana back and forth between them, neither of them have grown used to the coiling pleasure that threatens their control. The desire to  _ pull _ is always there, and the heat that it leaves low in her belly from just their hands touching sometimes makes her wonder. When Jaina gently squeezes her hand, she realizes she’s lost in thought again and the Inquisitor is staring at her from the other side of the bars.

“Lady Trevelyan.” Jaina’s greeting gets only a flick of steely grey eyes and a slight dip of head. This time Sylvanas tightens her fingers around Jaina’s at her indignant huff. That famous Proudmoore temper hasn’t been an issue so far; the mage has been too sick and exhausted for it to really flare up, but touching arcane energies and actually sleeping have brought back the Jaina Proudmoore that she glimpsed the day of their judgement. 

“Reports back to me have stated that you both have stayed within the parameters I set.” Sylvanas notices that the woman looks past her at Jaina as she speaks -as if Sylvanas doesn’t exist- despite Jaina being almost completely behind her. She keeps her face neutral despite the strong desire to scowl. Being underestimated is always an advantage. “My advisors have suggested that you both be released from the cell and given rooms and some measure of independence.” Jaina squeezes her hand again, this time as a celebration, and before she can stop herself, she slides her thumb across the mage’s knuckles in acknowledgement. 

Stern grey snaps to hold her gaze for the rest of the declaration. “You will not be armed, except during training, which is to be supervised with multiple members of the Inquisition. Several people,” here Trevelyan hesitates a moment then scowls, “whose opinions I value have posited that you both have been sent by Andraste to help us against Corypheus and his dragon. I cannot understand why Andraste would send a powerless mage and a demon, but I have been reminded it is not my place to question Her judgement or intentions. I am merely a tool for Her and the Maker to cleanse Thedas from Corypheus’s menace and help find someone worthy of being the new Divine.”

Two sharp squeezes press into her fingers and she knows Jaina is warning her not to bait the Inquisitor into changing her mind, so she swallows down the dark chuckle and smirk that she was prepared to bestow on the other woman for holding them in this hell for weeks. Jaina pulls her hand away with a soft caress of fingers and steps forward to stand next to her.

“I will show you to your rooms.” The Inquisitor calls for one of the guards to unlock the cell. Neither of them move as the man slots the key into the door and swings it open. Sylvanas had fantasized about falling onto the guards in her banshee form, their hands clutching their bleeding ears as her wail drove them to their knees. She’d comforted herself by imagining the familiar weight of Deathwhisper in her hands and her quiver on her back, arrow lined up with the Inquisitor’s left eye--in high-stress situations she’s noticed she pulls right, so a little overcompensation is necessary for a clean kill. For now, she’ll accept the deep satisfaction she’s getting from knowing the Inquisitor isn’t pleased with freeing them, and that someone in her organization chastised her. 

They follow her out of the prison --Sylvanas throwing a last longing look at her bow and armor-- and into the now familiar courtyard. The few people they pass watch them curiously as they trail along behind the Inquisitor. They don’t go far. A staircase in the keep leads to a balcony lined with single rooms, two of which are damaged and inhabitable, but there are two next to one another, each furnished with a bed, table, and chair. Sylvanas is wary of this sudden burst of generosity.

“Are we to be locked in here at night?” 

“No.” The scowl is back, marring Trevelyan’s fine features. “You are not prisoners any longer.”

“So we could leave?”

“Yes, if you wish to do so.” 

Sylvanas tips her head in acknowledgement. She hears the hint of hope despite the Inquisitor’s dour expression. The only way Sylvanas would have allowed prisoners to leave would be if there were a price on their heads. She’s convinced this woman would do the same --let someone else do her dirty work --so stay they must. They’ll have some manner of protection while working with the Inquisition so Jaina can build her strength, and while she, herself, can learn what powers she can access. Private rooms and usage of the training grounds will give them more opportunity to practice. The strange warmth flares again in her chest, her hand immediately rising to clutch where it blooms. Jaina looks at her in concern, but she shakes her head slightly and holds her hand out, moving it back and forth between the rooms. 

“I defer to you, Lady Proudmoore. Which is more to your liking?”

Jaina’s hand is at her neck, fingers slowly rubbing the metal anchor. Sylvanas thought the mage would be more excited to be getting out of the filthy cell, but she appears more apprehensive than pleased. She puts her hand under Jaina’s dirty cloak and gently presses it against her lower back, urging her forward. She swears Jaina leans back into the touch before moving to the room on the left. Before she enters, the Inquisitor speaks again.

“Of course, now that you are essentially free, Lady Proudmoore, we’ll need a phylactery --”

Ears flattened, Sylvanas can’t stop the feral growl that explodes from her as she shoves herself between Trevelyan and Jaina. She twists an arm behind her, flexing her fingers in a silent demand for Jaina’s hand and is immediately flooded with arcane when the mage takes it without hesitation. 

“I told you at the judgement that I am no lich.” Jaina snaps out, indignant, her hand squeezing tight against Sylvanas’s in anger. “Nor am I a necromancer.” Sylvanas finds her thumb moving of its own accord, stroking gently across Jaina’s knuckles, trying to calm her before she glacial spikes the woman in front of them. They haven’t practiced offensive magic, so who knows what would happen if Jaina loses control.  _ Temper, temper, little mage. _

The Inquisitor’s hand rests on the sheathed dagger at her side, but the smile on her face is far more threatening in its calmness. “No phylactery, no rooms. If we have no way of tracking you, you cannot be outside the cell without an escort.”

She feels Jaina stiffen behind her, so she continues the gentle slide of her thumb until she hears the deep inhale and slow exhale as Jaina tries to calm herself. _It’s always her._ Sylvanas feels a stab of regret; she desperately wants out of the cell, but once again it is Jaina who has to pay the toll. Her hand reaches up to press against the irritating tightness in her chest that flared again at her thoughts, when she sucks in a hissing breath. She stops her thumb and pulls her hand from Jaina’s, gritting her teeth at the loss of connection. Why does she care if the other woman has to do this thing for their freedom? ‘ _It shouldn’t matter._ _It doesn’t matter.’_ She tries to convince the part of herself that’s insisting that it might. Jaina gasps too, as the connection is severed, and she can feel the mage shift behind her in confusion.

“I--I need a moment.” Jaina stammers, “Sylvanas?”

Trevelyan’s eyes move from hers to Jaina’s, brow furrowed, aware that something has happened, but unsure as to what. She steps back away from them, but doesn’t go far enough to provide for a true private conversation. 

Sylvanas turns around and Jaina’s eyes immediately search her face. She says nothing; she won’t attempt to sway the mage either way. Finding nothing to go on, Jaina’s hand jumps to her necklace and she catches her lip between her teeth. Sylvanas’s itches to pull Jaina’s fingers from the pendant or to slip her hand under the mage’s chin and slide her thumb across the lip she’s worrying. She frowns at the compulsions --she cares  _ not  _ about the mage’s distress and clenches her hands into fists at her sides. 

“This is your decision, Lord Admiral; it’s your soul.”

She sees the hurt in Jaina’s eyes, and turns away before her resolve crumbles. That’s what got them here in the first place, her weakness against a pretty face. If she thinks about it hard enough, she can pin all of this on Jaina. Everything is her fault - the portal, their arrival at Skyhold, the vexing burn in her chest, this  _ concern  _ that bleeds from her when she thinks about the things Jaina has endured since their arrival and continues to endure. 

“Soul?” Now the Inquisitor looks confused. “Commander Rutherford will make the incision and collect your blood, the First Enchanter will cast the spell. This has nothing to do with souls.”

“What is the point of the phylactery then?” Jaina’s voice is quiet but firm, the fiery anger banked to embers. Sylvanas closes her eyes at the tone; she can imagine her face-- resigned at being abandoned again. Still, she will not turn nor reach behind her at the tentative touch to her back. There is nothing she hates more in the world as someone telling her ‘I told you so’ -- her mother and Alleria made sure of that. This decision will be Proudmoore’s alone.

“It is used to track apostate mages so they can be brought back to the Circle.”

Her ears flick at the aggressive metal slide of Jaina’s pendant against its chain as the mage deliberates. The Inquisitor stands stiffly, impatience writ in the set of her jaw. Sylvanas doubts that apostate mages are just found and returned. Dorian’s horrified face and their conversation of Tranquils imply “brought back” is something more permanent. 

“Call whomever you need to call, let’s get it over with.” Same quiet tone as before, but there’s more than just resignation simmering below the surface.

Her shoulders sink at Jaina’s response, in relief and in the knowledge that she owes the other woman for taking this additional responsibility. It may be the mage’s fault that they are here, but Sylvanas knows Jaina could have refused and they could stay in their cell. She sighs as the Inquisitor smirks; next to their deaths, this seems to be her desired outcome.

“I’ll leave you both to settle in while I find the Commander and First Enchanter.” Trevelyan turns on her heel and walks to the stairs before looking back over her shoulder. “I’ve posted guards on the stairs should you feel compelled to explore. You need an escort until we complete the phylactery.”

“Undoubtedly they’ve been instructed to kill on sight.” Sylvanas mutters, turning to go into her room. A hand on her arm stops her and she frowns. She doesn’t want to deal with this right now; not with the turmoil in her head. She pulls her arm away, but keeps her voice neutral, eyes trained on her open door. “Now is not a good time, Lord Admiral.”

If pleading or tears are what she expected, she is dead wrong. Jaina’s hand grabs her elbow, and when she spins around with a growl she is met by full Kul Tiran fury. 

“Now is the  _ only _ time. I’m tired of you dodging me.” Jaina snarls, lips pulled back over bared teeth. “What the fuck, Sylvanas?” The hand gripping her elbow moves flat against her sternum pushing her back against the wall between their rooms. “What is your fucking deal? I thought the past two weeks working together put us past this,” Jaina indicates between the two of them with her other hand, “bullshit! I thought we had each other’s backs; I  _ thought _ we were allies in this mess. Am I wrong? Did I completely read you wrong? Because what  _ I _ thought was that you wanted to get out of this place and you needed my help to do it. And I fucking know it just  _ eats _ you up to need my help, but you’re going to have to swallow your tidesdamned pride and accept it. Then,  _ you _ are going to help _ me _ , because I CANNOT do this on my own, do you understand?”

She wants to be furious, to be outraged, to snap and curse at the mage in turn, but she cannot because she is distracted by the flush across Jaina’s cheeks, by the fire in her eyes, and by the way her lips curl around her heated words. The mage is gorgeous in her anger, so much so that she forgets she’s the unaffected Warchief of the Horde, the emotionless Banshee Queen of the Forsaken --Ranger General Sylvanas Windrunner always appreciated beauty. Her body and mind are no longer under her careful control; if they were she’d have mocked Jaina’s tirade and stepped away instead of slowly raising her hand, eyes searching Jaina’s face for refusal, then giving in to the desires of the Ranger General. 

She brings her fingers up to trace along a clenched jaw, and Jaina closes her eyes and draws in a shuddering breath. Whether from the arcane rush or unexpected gentleness in the face of fury, Sylvanas doesn’t know and doesn’t care. She cups Jaina’s chin and softly brushes her thumb against lips that were just cursing her. The energy hums between them, adding a second layer of sensation to already overloaded senses. She wonders, crazily, what it would feel like to press her lips to where her thumb currently rests, to feel their connection through a kiss. Her own eyes close for a moment, too, before she gathers at the tatters of her control and with one last caress, gently pulls her hand away. 

“I understand, Lady Proudmoore.”

She slips into her room and shuts the door before Jaina can respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same deal for spoilers as the last chapter.  
> Come chat with me on Tumblr!


	9. Invitations

_ What just happened? _

Her eyes snap open at the click of the door closing behind the elf. If she weren’t standing on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, sun streaming below the roof overhang making her squint, she’d swear she’s in the midst of the most vivid, complicated dream she’s ever had. She can still feel the tingling path of Sylvanas’s hand across her jaw and against her lips, residual arcane from the caress still swirling inside her. It’s too much to think about right now, to contemplate why Sylvanas had touched her like she did, piercing red eyes seeking permission to connect, instead of to dominate. She reaches up with her own hand, fingers tracing along the fading sensation, as she turns and enters her own room.

She drops down onto the straight-backed wooden chair just inside the door-- she doesn’t want to sit on the bed and soil the linens with her dirty clothes . The room also has a fireplace, a table, and, to Jaina’s surprised pleasure, a writing desk and chair against the wall by the door. She has no parchment, nor quill and ink, but the idea that she  _ could _ sit and write a letter or study a book brings her small comfort. They’d been living like animals. Sylvanas’s frequent complaint of feeling like an exhibit at the Darkmoon Faire was more valid than Jaina would acknowledge at that time, for her own sanity.

She’s not used to being dirty and disheveled, or sleeping on the ground --but she  _ can _ do these things, if necessary, and without complaint despite the side-eye and condescending smirk Sylvanas has thrown at her whenever she thought Jaina wasn’t looking. Jaina spent most of her young life running the docks or on her father’s ship, clothes seasprayed and salt-crusted, rocked to sleep in a hammock on the same ocean that seemingly runs through her veins. She’s fully aware Sylvanas believes her a spoiled, pampered princess, but she’s Kul Tiran to the very core--rough and tumble, quick to temper, slow to forgive. She’s been through worse than a little dirt.

Regardless, she desperately wants a bath and clean clothes and to feel the comforting thrum of arcane energy, to pretend that she’s in her rooms in Stormwind and not completely out of control and relatively powerless in a foreign and hostile world. What she doesn’t want to admit is that she already misses Sylvanas’s presence, even as prickly and belligerent as the elf usually is. The discovery of their new ability gave them a reason to be civil --but that touch. Her fingers press against her lips and she closes her eyes again, the memory of Sylvanas’s thumb, feather-light, and the contrast of sharp arcane - a touch as intimate as a kiss.

A kiss she shouldn’t, and definitely doesn’t, want.

A knock at the door pulls her from her unconvincing reassurances. The door is ajar, so when she turns to call whomever in, she sees the Inquisitor, Commander Rutherford, and Grand Enchanter Vivienne just outside the doorway. She beckons them in with a sigh and debates calling Sylvanas to continue their united front. She has the sneaking suspicion that Solas has told Iron Bull, Leliana, and Dorian that Sylvanas isn’t bound to her, or even a demon for that matter. They continue to play the charade, because truly, only the Inquisitor’s opinion matters. 

She rises from the chair and steps towards the door. “Let me get Sylvanas. If I am hurt, she may sense-”

“I am here, my Lady.” 

She jumps when Sylvanas appears in the doorway, her usual scowl softened into something more thoughtful. As the elf’s gaze moves from her to the Inquisition members, it slips into impassivity, and she moves into the room to stand next to the writing desk so that Jaina and the others are all in her line of sight.

“Before we complete the phylactery, I think it wise to discuss my expectations of you both and your involvement with the Inquisition.” Trevelyan’s words are laced with distaste. Jaina gets the distinct impression that a conversation was had when the phylactery was agreed upon and that the woman regrets not just killing them when they arrived at Skyhold. She can imagine the deep smirk Sylvanas is wearing but she refuses to turn her head and confirm. The elf rejoices in her ability to annoy and unnerve, completely aware that knowing she could do both puts her in control. “Solas assured me you would be willing to assist the Inquisition against Corypheus and his forces. Essentially, you would serve the Inquisition as mercenaries, similar to The Iron Bull and his Chargers. We would provide your rooms and board, and you would receive a percentage of loot from missions completed. You will have access to our training grounds, your armor, and weapons upon signing a contract that would make aggression or violence towards an Inquisition member punishable by death. Are these terms amenable, Lady Proudmoore?”

She looks back at Sylvanas, but she’s as inscrutable as always. _ What does Sylvanas want besides going home?  _

“I would like to see the contract and some time to discuss with Sylvanas in private.” She stands as straight and tall as she can, and is pleased to see that the Inquisitor would have to tip her head back were they closer. 

“I wouldn’t want to impose on Commander Rutherford or the Grand Enchanter’s time any longer.”

“Surely, they can wait a few more minutes, no one wants allies made in haste?” She tips her head and raises an eyebrow at the other two. The Commander doesn’t meet her eyes, instead keeping his gaze focused on the Inquisitor. The Grand Enchanter, however, looks her up and down shrewdly. Her voice is rich yet condescending, she peers down her nose at Jaina although they are the same height. 

“I have other matters to attend to, but I would rather postpone them briefly for a committed ally than rush and welcome a fool who recants.”

No one moves.

Jaina looks at Sylvanas, but her blasé countenance leads her to believe the elf is determined to be useless. She holds out her hand for the rolled parchment and mutters through clenched teeth. “We will be just a minute, if you all would be so kind as to wait outside.”

The Inquisitor hands her the scroll with a huff, and turns to step just outside the open door. Commander Rutherford and the Grand Enchanter follow close behind, Vivienne throws a stray glance at Sylvanas as she passes through the doorway, clearly sizing her up. Jaina sees Sylvanas’s eyes sharpen, and she flashes a hint of fang --it is clearly a threat, but Madame de Fer simply offers her a smug smile as she steps through the doorway.

“What are you doing?” She hisses, swatting at Sylvanas’s shoulder with the rolled contract. “You’re going to get us killed.”

Sylvanas doesn’t smile but her eyes are openly amused. “They have no idea who they’re dealing with. I could have gutted the three of them before any of them could have drawn a sword.” This time the elf loses the battle with the corners of her mouth--the smirk holds open admiration. “And  _ you _ …that woman might be called the Grand Enchanter, but even here without ambient mana, your arcane signature overpowers hers.”

“We do this then?” It’s a rhetorical question, she realizes as soon as it leaves her lips. Sylvanas’s eyes roll and she steps back to lean against the desk, elegant fingers caressing the fine, finished wood.

“You know, I don’t have one of these in my room.”

“Maybe they think you illiterate and dysgraphic.” She counters with a small shrug.

A snort, then a low chuckle that brings goosebumps to her arms and a flush to her cheeks. She has never heard Sylvanas laugh in good humor. Derisively, yes many, many times. Maniacally, at least once. Never this--this soft thing, pure and uncalculated--the antithesis of its creator. She wisely chooses to ignore it for fear of changing this easy co-existence. 

“Perhaps. But  _ you’re _ the one who picked the rooms.” It’s a delighted purr, and Jaina fights a shiver. “And yes, we do this.”

“Are you planning to stay while they make the phylactery?” She tries her best to sound offhand and not hopeful, but the teasing gleam in Sylvanas’s eyes prove her efforts unsuccessful.

“If my Lady wishes.” The elf offers a mocking bow, holding Jaina’s eyes the whole time, glowing red still alight with teasing. She can still feel the flush on her cheeks and the brush of Sylvanas’s thumb against her lips. She doesn’t know what they’re doing - this bizarre waltz to which she doesn’t know the steps or who’s leading. She should just refuse to dance instead of trying to get a feel for the music, but fortune favors the bold. She draws herself up as tall and regal as she can, but throws a wink in Sylvanas’s direction.

“She does.” 

s§s 

As Thedosian experiences go, the creation of the phylactery ranks low. Not as awful as the Harrowing, but low enough that she’s glad it’s not something they’ll have to repeat. At least they healed her this time. While the concept of the phylactery fascinates her-- it is an incredible thing, glowing brighter and brighter the closer one gets to the original owner of the blood inside--the implications for why such a thing was developed sober her quickly. Vivienne had explained that all mages belonging to a Circle had a phylactery, and that they were stored in one of three places: Kinloch Hold for apprentice mages, full mages’ and enchanters’ at an undisclosed location in a city called Denerim, and all First Enchanters’ in the White Spire, a Templar stronghold. Jaina was reminded that hers would be kept with the Inquisitor for quick and easy access should it be needed. It was a barely veiled threat that caused Sylvanas to choke down a snicker.

The Inquisitor had also mentioned that the members of the Inquisition have been requested to settle a dispute between the Empress and her cousin. Since the Winter Palace, home of the Empress, is too far for the Inquisitor to keep proper tabs on them, they are required to travel with the other members of the Inquisition and remain under the watchful eye of Commander Rutherford and Leliana. They are to leave in the early evening, carriages and luggage being prepared at this moment. The Inquisitor had taken one look at the both of them and ordered them to the baths and their clothing to be washed. 

Jaina sighs happily, neck deep in a tub filled to overflowing with warm water, her just-washed hair piled on top of her head. She feels human again, skin scrubbed pink with scented soap, stiff muscles and joints eased by the heat and rubbing. Neither her shoulder nor her wrist pain her any longer, but the wrist is still somewhat stiff. She bends and flexes it under the cooling water, soaking up as much of the warmth as she can. 

With her eyes closed, she can imagine herself in one of the bathing rooms in Proudmoore Keep, and a pang of homesickness strikes her so hard she gasps. They’ll never be able to leave if she allows herself to become complacent, lulled by clean clothes and a bath. She stands with a splash, stepping to the towel, her navy leggings and borrowed tunic warming on a chair near the fireplace. As she dresses, she thinks back to the start of the day and how she was able to hold the wisp of mana from Sylvanas’s rogue touch for almost an hour. They should be working on this, essentially charging one another with arcane, but how with Sylvanas in another room? She needs to convince the other woman that rooming separately is detrimental to their training. 

There’s no way she’s grown to enjoy Sylvanas’s presence in her periphery. It’s impossible that when her thoughts turn to the elf - which they are more and more frequently- that they have a certain fondness to them that is both exhilarating and distressing. So much so that she’s now standing in front of her room, and she doesn’t remember the walk back. She pushes the door open, shaking her head

“Are you ready?” Sylvanas leans in her open doorway and watches as she laces up her boots. She turns her head and looks up at the elf through the damp twists of her loose hair. Sylvanas had foregone the protective leather and mail sleeves worn under her armor and her familiar leather and metal body armor for a plain cotton tunic and her leather leggings. Amusement curves the corners of her lips as she watches Jaina finish tying up her left boot. “For the first time in fifteen-odd years, I’ll see Jaina Proudmoore in a color other than white.”

“What?” She looks over at her skirts, corset, and cloak laid out neatly on the chair by the desk. 

Sylvanas follows her gaze and tsks. “Nah, ah, ah, Lord Admiral. We are officially mercenaries of the Inquisition. We will be wearing an unflattering claret military jacket and dark trousers, a travesty, surely, in your case. I’d much prefer the corset and skirts.” She shoulders the door jamb pushing herself upright, eyes still fixed to Jaina’s clothes. As almost an afterthought she murmurs thoughtfully, “Actually, red may be your color. A striking contrast with your hair and will bring out that frequent blush.”

Stunned into silence, she stares open mouthed at the other woman who has made her way over to the clothing and is sliding her fingers along the buttons and buckles of the corset.  _ Is...is she flirting with me? _ She has no idea what is happening. She snaps her mouth shut and watches dumbly from the bed, mute with confusion and the slight fear of saying something that will sour Sylvanas’s obviously good mood.

“So are you?” Sylvanas turns, both hands clasped behind her back.

Jaina is completely rattled, and by the sly smile on Sylvanas’s face, she knows it. She shakes her head in a futile effort to refocus. “Am I what?”

“Ready?” 

Her boots are laced and tied; she is clean and clothed and utterly confused by the last five minutes of interaction. She just nods and follows a softly chuckling Sylvanas down to where the carriages wait. They are both handed their uniforms and a wrapped sandwich to eat on the road. The procession will arrive at the Winter Palace by tomorrow late afternoon. She climbs into the carriage and settles herself onto the seat facing forward, Sylvanas taking the seat next to her. Leliana gracefully steps in last and gives them both a smile as she perches in the seat across from them.

“I hate this uniform.” The Spymaster tosses the clothing on the empty seat and tucks her feet up underneath her. She wiggles and moves until she’s seemingly content with her position in the gently swaying carriage. Jaina feels the energy drain from her watching Leliana shift and settle. The other woman seems to have two modes: silent stillness or fluttering chatter, and she frequently flips between the two. It’s almost as if there are two different Lelianas battling for control over one body. Right now, it looks like they’ll be treated to Jaina’s favorite: Leliana the bard, animated storyteller, clever enough to word-spar with Sylvanas.

“Lady Trevelyan is unaware that redheads aren’t supposed to wear red, but I guess when one looks striking in something, one assumes it is comme ça for the rest of the world as well. Oh well.” Leliana leans back into the plush seat and folds her hands in her lap, usually a sign that the spymaster is returning. The animation tends to leave her, but not her wit. “I must say I am pleased you’ve both agreed to help the Inquisition despite everything so far.”

Jaina can feel her eyes droop as Leliana continues to discuss their roles in the organization, Sylvanas paying rapt attention instead of her usual disinterested sneer. With Sylvanas engaged, Jaina feels like she can tune out of the conversation. She feels herself starting to slouch so she tries to settle back into the seat. The drone of their voices and the movement of the carriage lulls her to half awareness, and she catches her nodding head with a start, jerking awake with a gasp. Both Leliana and Sylvanas look at her with open amusement.

“Sorry.” Although she’s really not. What a joy it is, to not have responsibilities for a moment, to simply relax while travelling instead of writing correspondence, or supply chain requests, or levitating the fucking ship here or there. The rocking of the carriage is so relaxing, she refuses to waste this opportunity. Throwing caution to the wind, she picks up their folded uniforms and sets them in Sylvanas’s lap then promptly folds herself sideways on the seat and puts her head on the impromptu pillow. “Good night to you both.” Leliana laughs in delight, perhaps at her boldness or at Sylvanas’s obvious uncertainty as to where to put her arm.

She doesn’t care. If Sylvanas wants to flaunt her comfort with the new shift in their --association, well she can too. After a moment, the weight of Sylvanas’s arm rests against her shoulder and, as the other women resume their conversation, Sylvanas’s fingers slowly comb through her hair.

s§s

She wakes, flushed, from a vivid dream to the pleasant hum of arcane coursing through her. Sylvanas’s hand rests under her hair against her bare neck, her thumb softly stroking the nape. Her blush deepens when Sylvanas squeezes gently before pulling her hand away with a husky chuckle. Jaina hates the sensation of loss that comes when their connection is severed, but she’s far more worried that some of her dream may have made it out into the waking world. Leliana breathes heavy, curled in a similar position across from them.

“Don’t worry, she didn’t hear anything.” Sylvanas leans down to whisper against her ear, cool lips just far enough to hint at contact but not make it. Jaina brings her hands up to cover her burning face and Sylvanas laughs again, quietly. As she pushes herself up out of Sylvanas’s lap, she can feel the elf’s fingers trail through her hair before falling against the uniforms.

She keeps her face buried in her hands until some of the heat in her cheeks fades then she peeks through her fingers at Sylvanas, who smirks and hands her the uniform pieces that are hers.

“Really, she didn’t. Mostly because there wasn’t anything to hear.”

She pulls her hands from her face and frowns. “Why would you--”

“Because when you blush, your freckles show more.” Sylvanas leans forward, self-satisfied smirk still firmly in place. “We’re at the Winter Palace I think, or close enough that we should start getting ready. Let her wake on her own. Neither of us needs a dagger in the throat.”

She nods, clutching the itchy clothing to her chest. The draperies are pulled over the windows still, shutting out most of the light. She must have slept for hours longer than usual, the sway of the carriage and Sylvanas’s fingers in her hair soothing her through nightmares that would usually wake her. She pulls on the woolen uniform, surprised that only the trousers are a bit short. Tucked into her boots, no one will notice. She watches as Sylvanas does the same, and when their eyes meet, she gives her a rueful smile. “Too short?”

Sylvanas nods. “They must save all the long clothing for Trevelyan and Cassandra.”

She feels in her belt pouch for her comb, then runs it through her hair, deftly braids it and ties off the end by the time Leliana wakes. The carriage is a flurry of activity as they get closer to the palace. Leliana and Jaina eat, splitting Sylvanas’s portion between them. They step down from the carriage with the rest of the entourage, garish in their crimson coats and royal blue sashes, gold epaulettes heavy on both shoulders. Masked attendees flow around them as the Inquisitor approaches. 

“Stay with the Commander or with Sister Leliana, whoever has nothing to attend to at the moment.” She nods once to Leliana and turns on her heel to meet the men who will announce her to the crowd.

“I should be free this entire evening. My days playing the Grand Game are behind me now. Plus I’ve heard the most intriguing rumor that I must confirm about the Empress’s arcane advisor. It’s an impossibility, but I heard it from a reliable source...” Leliana’s eyes spark with excitement, then she frowns. “It’s a shame I must confirm it in this. I told you red is dreadful for les roux.” 

Jaina offers the spymaster a sympathetic smile. “This color doesn’t do anything good for me either. It brings out all the red in my skin.”

“Personally, I rather like it. It highlights my eyes.” Sylvanas deadpans.

Leliana laughs behind her hand, but Jaina just smiles. When she puts away the fearsome facade, Sylvanas is stunning with her fine bone structure and silvery-blond hair. She wonders if the elf realizes that she’s still beautiful. Vereesa told her once, after enough Dalaran red to loosen her tongue, that when Sylvanas was alive the woman never met a mirror she didn’t like and that she didn’t want for company to warm her bed either. She’s seeing more and more of that Sylvanas than she is of the ruthless person who burned Teldrassil and tore the sky asunder.

They walk behind the crowd, keeping enough distance that Sylvanas doesn’t attract unwanted attention from the guests. Jaina admires the beautiful dresses and ornate hair styles, twisted and bejeweled. When was the last time they had something to celebrate like this in Azeroth? When was the last time she’d been able to wear something elegant and spin around in the arms of a dance partner? 

Sylvanas’s hand closes on her elbow, and she stops to look over at her, brow furrowed. The elf points over to where Leliana has stopped, staring up the staircase. At the top of the stairs, Trevelyan stands stiff and scowling, locked in conversation with a willowy woman whose raven hair is piled on her head. Leliana’s pale skin has gone even lighter, except for the blush high on her cheeks and she is murmuring quietly, but not in common. “Mon dieu, c’est vrai, c’est vrai.”

Jaina takes a step towards her, but Sylvanas’s hand tightens. “Be careful, remember the daggers.” 

She nods. As they were getting ready, she watched the spy tuck seven blades in various sheathes on her body. Who knows how many others she has. She pitches her voice low and calm. “Leliana. Are you alright?” 

The other woman turns toward them, trying to collect herself as they stand off in a shadowy corner near the base of the stairs. “It’s true. Incroyable, but true. I would never have thought-”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She can see that Leliana is still pale and trembling, so she looks around for a chair. Finding none, she instead leads her to lean against the ornate railing of the staircase. Leliana tucks the ends of her hair behind her ears and draws a shaky breath.

“Maybe I have. It’s been ten years hearing neither hide nor hair.”

Jaina shoots a puzzled glance at Sylvanas who offers a little shrug in response. Leliana is always collected and controlled, even when she’s playing the role of animated bard. Whatever she’s seen has shaken her to the core. They stand around her, Jaina unsure of how to offer comfort, except to gently cover the hand that’s resting on the curled bannister for support. 

“Well, well what have we here?” A low, smoky voice cuts through the drone of conversation surrounding them. “Why Sister Nightingale! A little bird whispered to me that you may be attending.” 

Leliana blanches and her hand twitches under Jaina’s. When the mage turns, she is face to face with the woman who had been locked in debate with the Inquisitor. Another beauty. Her thoughts jump to when they’d met Leliana for the first time and how she wondered if all the women in Thedas were beautiful. So far, yes, and strikingly so. Jaina says nothing, captivated by the woman’s gold eyes as they size her up, ruby lips turned up in a confident smirk.

Leliana breaks the silence, finally able to get her bearings. “Lady Jaina Proudmoore, Sylvanas, may I present to you Morrigan, the Witch of the Wilds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late, but if you're in the Sylvaina fandom you already know that yesterday was a day for some big updates and I had to go fangirl over those pieces. If you don't read Ink and Honor and Vintage, you should!
> 
> Chapters are getting longer for some reason, so that might affect my updating schedule. Hopefully the longer chapters make it worth it!
> 
> Thank you all for being so supportive!  
> ♥


	10. Proof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!  
> We're still a chapter and a half ahead of here, but the gap is closing quickly. School starts for me next week and Nightingayles is currently in the throes of preparing for exams. Updates might come a little slower, but only because we want to keep ahead of the curve. We appreciate each one of you and your readership, comments, kudos, and mostly, patience with us getting chapters out to you. I'm guessing that we're about halfway through this tale.

She wants to stand here in the sun and soak in the comfort that comes from the weight of her armor on her shoulders and her bow in her hand. They’d arrived back from Orlais well after the sun rose this morning, and the humans had all stumbled to their respective rooms to sleep off the alcohol and journey. The ride back had been electric; Morrigan rode in their carriage and the heavy silence between her and Leliana spoke more than they did. She’d wanted to ask why the arcane advisor to the throne was joining them, but Jaina had curled into her lap again and all she could do was pull the thread from the mage’s braid and bury her fingers in her hair. She can’t remember the last time she’d been this compelled to touch someone. Not since before she was raised, surely. Up until then, she’d been a very tactile creature. All elves are. 

_ You are no longer an elf. _ She frowns.

Despite appearances, Sylvanas had felt right at home at the Winter Palace watching the Grand Game unfold around them. Orlesian nobles have nothing on Silvermoon high society with its thousands of years of practice stabbing one another in the back. Before Quel’thalas fell, it was a high art form, and she’d played with the best of them. In the end, she’d been bested, outplayed by Dar’Khan. So much time spent in the company of her rangers, loyal and protective, had softened her skills. She’d paid with her life. 

_ You swore never again, and now look at you.  _ The frown deepens and she raises her hand to run it along the vertebrae in the upper arc of her bow, soothed by the familiar bumps and ridges. She slings it across her back and walks towards the training grounds, hoping to have some time alone before the partygoers wake.

According to Leliana, they’d succeeded in whatever the Inquisitor’s goal was at the palace. Deposed the Empress who’d gamed the throne out from under her cousin and rightful heir. The spy didn’t seem pleased with the outcome, her eyes darting to Morrigan, as she explained that Gaspard, the new Emperor, sent the witch to the Inquisition as a sign of good faith. Sylvanas thinks it sounds more like a death sentence. Morrigan, herself, hadn’t seemed concerned, instead she’d watched Leliana out of the corner of her eye until the dancing started. When the music began, Leliana had faded into the shadows of the pillars pulling Morrigan with her. Sylvanas caught something about red velvet and necklines and immediately tuned out. Not the gossip she anticipated, so she’d gone over to lean on the railing next to Jaina, and watched the dancers as they’d swirled below.

“Come to join us,  _ demon? _ ” 

Iron Bull’s booming voice snaps her out of her reverie and she realizes she’d stopped at the edge of the field and was staring off into space. She throws him a sloppy salute with her bow, smirking at the nickname; he’s called her Lady Demon or some variation since that first day in the tavern. She has missed this camaraderie -the easy banter between soldiers- instead of holding herself above it to lead. She never wanted to be Warchief, but Vol'jin forced her out of the shadows and under a mantle that was slowly crushing her. She needed to get out or completely lose herself. Everything had been going to plan until Proudmoore came along. She clenches her jaw and shakes her head.

“Work some of that out on the range. Let’s see what you’ve got.” The challenge rings against the stone walls and she feels the thrill of it fill her. She strides to the end of the range, nocking an arrow as she goes, the draw centering her in a way that almost nothing else does.  _ Nothing else except for Proudmoore’s hands.  _ The grounds get quiet as Bull’s company stops their activities to watch her. Huffing at her thoughts and their looks, she turns her attention back to the dummy at the end of the grounds and promptly puts three arrows into its head, one right after another, all in a breath.

A cheer rises from the sparring pit, the Chargers crashing swords and shields together, and she smiles, pride and confidence flowing back to her. The young man from the tavern, Krem, comes running towards her, arrows in his hand. “Well done, Lady! We have pulley movement and throwing targets. Would you like one of them?” He looks very much like he wants her to say yes, his face much like the eager ones of her young rangers when they first came under her wing.

She nods as she takes the arrows, and he jogs back to where Iron Bull is standing. Above the dummies she sees the rope rigging and heavy wooden target of the pulley movement, and the sling and box of clays over at Krem’s feet. When he looks back, she points to the ground, indicating the thrown clay discs. She’s up for the challenge; she’s not held her bow for a month, much less practiced. Sticking two of the arrows in the ground by her feet, she nocks the third and calls for them to throw the first clay. 

Krem loads one in the sling and begins to wind up for the launch. Bull is standing with his arms crossed, the other Chargers are leaning on swords or staves; all their eyes are to the sky, waiting for the throw. When she sees the red disc soar into the air, she tracks it for just a moment before letting the arrow fly. The clay explodes into fragments and dust, and they’re cheering again. She furrows her brow at how easily they’re impressed. She could have made that shot as a youngling, dead-eye Alleria as a child. She has more impressive things up her sleeve, but her intended audience isn’t here.

Others are beginning to file in, soldiers and Inquisition members alike. Cassandra stands next to Bull, her head tilted toward him in conversation. Commander Rutherford is directing a group of soldiers in the vacated sparring pit. Dalish, the Chargers’ “backup archer”, joins her at the end of the grounds, and Sylvanas cannot help but laugh under her breath at the other elf’s “bow.”

“You aren’t going to actually try to shoot with that, are you?” Sylvanas raises an eyebrow at the crystals adorning the top of the obvious mage staff carved into the shape of a longbow. “I don’t even think I could manage the draw on that monster.”

The other woman just winks at her, the extensive tattooing on her face green as the first spring leaves. “It wouldn’t do to let you have all the fun. Plus, Bull thinks you need a challenge and Leliana isn’t here.”

“The Sister is an archer?” She responds in surprise. After seeing all the blades that the redhead straps to her person, Sylvanas would have guessed her to dual wield. Dalish just gives her a wicked smile.

“She is, and quite formidable. Varric is an archer as well.”

She scowls, picturing the dwarf with his crossbow cradled in his arms. “A crossbow does not an archer make.” Then she turns and looks pointedly at Dalish’s weapon. “Nor a strung staff. You must magic that to draw it.”

Dalish just winks again and smiles slyly, and they set themselves to practice. They take turns shooting clays out of the sky, then move on to the rope-rigged target. Everyone gets back to their training, pairing off in sword drills or slashing at training dummies. Sylvanas is so focused that she doesn’t realize Jaina has joined them until she catches a flash of blue and white out of the corner of her eye. She sinks her last two arrows into the swinging wooden circle in quick succession, gives Dalish a nod, and then strides over to talk to the mage.

“Did you sleep enough? Have you eaten?” The questions are out of her mouth before she can think about what they project. She stops right in front of Jaina and studies her nails, trying to cover her concern with mocking sarcasm. “Our first day free and it figures you’d choose to sleep it away. I don’t see why you’re so partial to being alive. It’s always eat this, sleep that, and then all of the waste. Disgusting.”

Jaina’s lips turn up in a coy smile, the blue of her eyes soft and affectionate. It’s as if she stopped listening after Sylvanas asked the questions. “Be careful, I might begin to think us friends, with all these inquiries about my wellbeing.” 

And Sylvanas is lost. The snapping retort on her tongue dissolves at the bloom of warm tightness in her chest. She has no idea what she’s doing—it's instinct taking over, the elven drive to protect and provide for a partner. But they aren’t partners and anything elven in her died when Arthas dragged her soul from her body and flayed it. If she could blush, she’s sure her ears would be burning and cheeks alight, but she cannot. Her heart doesn’t beat; it is a dead thing in her chest, useless and unfeeling. She frowns and looks away from Jaina’s open, smiling face.

“Why don’t we see what  _ you _ can do with this connection to Azeroth?” Jaina’s voice is still friendly as she steps forward and lays her hand on Sylvanas’s arm, turning her back towards the range. It’s as if the mage senses her discomfort and is trying to put her at ease rather than revel in it. “Then maybe I’ll take a few shots.”

Out of a habit she thought long dead, Sylvanas offers her bent arm, and without hesitation Jaina tucks her hand up under the crook of her elbow. As they move to the range, those near enough to see stop what they were doing to watch. Were they her soldiers, they’d be running until they puked for their lack of focus, but they are not. Plus their commanders and the Inquisitor have come up alongside the field as well. This feels like an audition. She drops her arm and pulls Deathwhisper off her back, turning her head slightly to murmur, “How are we going to do this?”

Jaina is already tugging off her gloves. They get stuffed into one of the pouches on her belt and her staff, strapped to her back before she steps back and looks Sylvanas up and down. “You couldn’t be dressed more like your rangers? Then I’d have plenty of places to put my hands.”

She deliberates a moment before responding, the deep breath she draws is more habit than anything else. Only her rangers know why the first thing she did, upon wresting control of herself from Arthas, was to have new armor crafted. She can’t stop the bitter smile as she thinks back to Jaina’s words after they touched the first time.  _ You’re so pretty _ . A sentiment with which she’d have agreed decades ago, when her eyes were still silvery gray, her skin warm, and her body unmarked by Frostmourne’s violation. Now though, there is nothing pretty about her. She must decide how to respond: as the Banshee Queen, the Warchief, or as Sylvanas. The connection when they touch feels like living again, and she’s been dead inside for so long she’s forgotten that there’s joy there. She’s surprised by how fiercely she wants to keep it, but she still cannot keep the bitterness from her voice.

“You would not want your hands where my armor is, Lord Admiral, believe me. Let me remove my cloak and we shall see if that will do.” She tries to keep the edge from her voice, but the reply rings harsh in her lowered ears.

Gone is the teasing from Jaina’s eyes, but thankfully it isn’t replaced by pity, just a gentle understanding. The other woman just nods and steps back to give her room to manoeuvre.

She pulls off her hood and unclasps the tattered fabric from her shoulders --it’s lighter now that half of it is missing-- and folds it before setting it with her quiver, on the ground near her feet. Feeling exposed, she shrugs her shoulders and swings her arms to settle and center herself. When she turns to Jaina, she sees the smile has returned, and there is something unidentifiable in those blue eyes. 

“Between your shoulder blades, perhaps. Draw once, let me see.”

She obeys, swinging the bow into position, and when Jaina hums softly at the flex of muscle, she smiles despite herself. She holds, bracing herself for the warmth of Jaina’s skin against her own and the subsequent flood of arcane. They’ve learned to control the flow so that a simple touch isn’t overwhelming, but the first contact is always a jolt. Jaina’s fingers brush down her spine and she jumps from the gentle caress as much as from the energy. The mage lays her palm flat between her flexed shoulder blades, only enough pressure to maintain contact.

“Will this work?” Jaina murmurs softly behind her. 

“For this, yes.” She releases the draw for a moment, pulling and releasing to see if there would be any interference. “Let me get some arrows and then I’ll tell them to throw.”

Jaina’s hand pulls away when she bends over to grab four arrows out of her quiver and sticks them into the ground. Sylvanas sets her stance, grabs two of the arrows, nocking one and holding the other by two fingers in her hand. She shrugs her shoulders a few times, and then nods, waiting for Jaina’s hand. As soon as she feels the warmth on her back, she pulls on their connection and lets the energy flow through her. She calls out to Krem at the other end. “Throw two at the same time.”

He waves and loads two clays, spinning the sling around and around waiting for her signal. She nods once and draws, pulling arcane to swirl purple around the arrowhead. The clays fly up, and she shoots the first arrow then flicks the second one up into position and releases again. When the arrows hit their targets; the clays are annihilated. There is no dust, no fragments fall to the earth. There is no evidence that the discs even existed. The arrows jut from the far wall, embedded into the stone halfway up the shaft. Iron Bull shouts loudly, and the Chargers cheer again. She notices that the Inquisitor and Cassandra are off to the side, heads together, discussing something.

“Throw a stone, as big of one as you can.” 

She pulls another arrow from the ground, relaxed and waiting as they search the grounds for a good-sized rock. Jaina’s hand stays against her back, fingers flexing gently in a caress. “What are you going to do with that?”

“Split it in half.” She doesn’t mention that she plans on splitting the half again with her last arrow. Her cocksure grin at Jaina smacks of Ranger General Sylvanas, bright and flirtatious. The smile she gets in return looks almost indulgent. Her stomach flutters as Jaina leans in to murmur near her ear.

“I want you to try something that I’ve been working on. Pull now, as much as you can, and try to hold it, I’m going to let go. Envision filling a hole, or winding thread, some image in your head to help.”

She nods, imagining a pocket inside her filling with the snowbright arcane, its familiar comfort settles over her. There is another shout from the far end as Iron Bull holds up a rock the size of his head. She nods, the corner of her mouth tugging into a confident smirk. Jaina pulls away, trailing her fingers across her back and along her draw arm to the elbow. It is certainly not a touch of enemies, it is not even one of friends. Even her rangers, who have served with her for centuries, do not touch her so familiarly. She doesn’t have the time to address it, however, because Bull hurls the stone skyward with a bellow. She draws and shoots, watching intently as the rock is cleaved in two. Without taking her eyes from the falling halves, she pulls the last arrow from the ground and feels the rest of the energy drain from her as she powers the shot. She doesn’t know if there’s enough to split the stone, so she hopes to pin it to the wall if not. Either should be impressive enough. She releases the arrow and it sings through the air striking the lower of the two halves with a crack louder than the first. The half explodes instead of splitting, shards of rock raining onto the range. The Chargers whoop and holler as they scramble onto the stretch of grass to pick up the split pieces of rock.

“Can you always do that?” She is startled by the Inquisitor’s voice near her shoulder. Cassandra stands off by Jaina, the two of them talking about something in low voices. At some point during her last few shots, the women must have made their way to this end of the field. Her ears twitch as she checks Jaina over for discomfort but the mage’s posture is relaxed and her eyes are shining with arcane. Glowing blue rises to meet her gaze, and she is eased by the smile Jaina gives her. The fondness in it makes her chest tight and she pulls absently at her armor as she turns to Trevelyan.

“Not here, no. But that and more where I am from. We are still learning what we can do here in Thedas.” The Inquisitor’s jaw tightens and her eyes go hard, and she remembers that Trevelyan still doesn’t believe them from a different world. She almost shrugs, she cannot force this woman into believing the truth.

“Your master looks to be gaining strength.” The Inquisitor intones, steel grey eyes scan her face, watching every reaction.

She clenches her jaw, offering only a sharp nod. “She is acclimating to your arcane source, slowly but surely.” 

“And you?”

She is not sure how much of their situation to reveal. Jaina has been working so hard at recovering her strength and health that their focus has been solely on her, with good reason. Sylvanas can’t make portals, can’t blink entire armies to safety, can’t fly a battleship into Lordaeron and rescue the Alliance’s boy-king, his barking dog, and a surly elder sister from the Warchief of the Horde and her plague. She realizes she has closed her eyes; behind her eyelids toxic green clouds of blight fuel the orange flames of Teldrassil as all of the people she’s killed and raised dance in a macabre parade around the fire.

“I’m doing well enough.” She shakes her head, the image of the burning tree fades as the overwhelming urge to put her hands on Jaina moves to the forefront. “One doesn’t need arcane to put an arrow through an eye.”

“That’s why I am here. We are in need of an archer for this mission.” Trevelyan’s matter-of-fact statement is more a poorly veiled command. Hard grey eyes continue their intense study of her face. Sylvanas doesn’t know what the other woman’s looking for; she doesn’t bother to hide the disdain that permanently graces her face. Decades of crafted indifference and contempt have become her daily mask and it takes an effort --that she’s currently not interested in making-- to make it anything else.

She merely quirks an eyebrow, refusing to give the Inquisitor the satisfaction of her curiosity. The other woman shifts and sighs, obviously unhappy that she hadn’t jumped at the offered opportunity. Trevelyan crosses her arms across her chest and clenches her jaw for a moment before she clears her throat and continues. “We will be traveling into the Fallow Mire, most of the population wiped out by a plague that turned the residents into undead. Cassandra and I can handle them, but fighting hip-deep in fetid water,” she pauses as if regretting what she’ll say next, “is  _ unpleasant _ at best. Vivienne will accompany us as well, and is ranged, but it would be too much a drain on her to have to heal, shield, and attack.”

She has to work to keep her face neutral.  _ There are undead in Thedas? _ Jaina’s eyes are boring into the side of her head from where she’s standing with the Seeker, it’s apparent that they were eavesdropping. Cassandra chuckles lowly, her rough voice as cajoling as she can make it. “Unpleasant indeed. The last time we had business there, I smelled like a bog for a week. It will be good to have an archer, especially one that can pierce stone.” 

“Training tricks that I can only do with the help of my Lady at this time.” Sylvanas knows she isn’t really being given a choice, but she’ll play along. “But I can outshoot any of you and have no love for  _ mindless _ undead.”

At the slight emphasis, Jaina looks at her sharply, hand on her pendant. The compulsion to go to her and take her hands is so strong she must actively stop herself. This is the first time they’ll be separated for more than a couple of hours. “Where is this place and how long will I be gone? How will I guarantee my Lady’s safety while I am not here to guard her?”

The Inquisitor frowns, surveying the two of them. “The Fallow Mire is two days travel. I don’t imagine that our business there will last more than two or three days, and then another two days back. You have my word that she will not be harmed.”

Jaina nods at her. “I’ll be fine, Sylvanas. They have a large library here, so I’ve been told.”

Leave it to an archmage to seek comfort and security in a library. She rolls her eyes at Jaina who grins, then she turns her attention back on Trevelyan. “When do we leave?”

“Now. Go pack and meet us at the stables.” The Inquisitor smiles wickedly, “I have the perfect mount for you.”

s§s

If the Inquisitor had expected her to be put off by the undead horse she’d assigned, well she was, without doubt, unpleasantly surprised. It had been impossible for Sylvanas to hide her delight when the horsemaster led the beastly thing to her, a grimace plastered on his normally pleasant face. Bog unicorn they called it, its peat-blackened skin tanned to its bones, mane and tail bleached copper, and a sword piercing up through its jaw and skull in a gruesome parody of a horn. She’d loved it at once, and had smirked at the wide berth everyone but Jaina gave her. 

She’d been nervous about having to ride, especially since the living horses in Azeroth would shy away from her. She usually just raised something, threw a saddle over the animated skeleton, and went upon her way. This horse was like her skeletal steeds in that it needed no food, no water, and essentially, no rest. Unlike them though, this beast had drive and personality. The first night as the others slept --uneasily with her on guard, she remembers with a grin-- it had come and nosed her in the back and snuffled her hair. At that point she named it Talah and whispered against its neck like a lovestruck adolescent, a familiar tug at her still heart as when she’d named her first hawkstrider. Thedas is making her soft, and unlike before, this doesn’t make panic and fury rise up in her.

Their arrival at the Fisher’s End camp is met with little fanfare. She pities the scouts and soldiers that have to stay and hold the Inquisition’s presence in this Belore-forsaken land. Lightning and thunder are as constant as the rain. Mud and water squish up around her boots and she curls her lip in distaste. She’d take the Swamp of Sorrows over this any day, even gloomy Kul Tiras is more attractive. She’ll recommend the Inquisitor brings Jaina if she has to come back. The mage is more suited to this mess than she.

They have two tasks on their docket. First, find and return Widris, a mage who has fled her Circle. Second, rescue a cohort of Inquisition soldiers from the Hand of Korth, an Avvar, who captured them to gain audience with the Inquisitor. By the set of Trevelyan’s jaw and flash of steely grey eyes, Sylvanas thinks he’s going to get more than just an audience. The Inquisitor also made it clear that their standing orders are also to close any rifts they encounter on the way. She ties Talah with the other mounts --to the requisition officer’s horror-- and grins with full fang at the poor woman. 

They’ve barely struck out from the camp when they come across their first undead. Before they’d left Skyhold, Jaina had held her hand, murmuring to her to hold the arcane as long as she could. The pocket of energy has depleted slowly over their journey, she’s sure the comfort she’s drawing from it is where it’s going, but that’s a subconscious action and she needs to be focused on what is happening around them. Focusing on conserving the arcane could mean the death of one of them.

The first corpse bubbles up from the murky water off to their right. Cassandra draws her sword with a shout and prepares to charge. Trevelyan’s axe is in her hands, but Sylvanas calls out over them both.

“Can either of you taunt? I can hit it from here, but without charging a shot, I’ll need two arrows for a sure kill. Bring it in.”

Cassandra nods and raises her sword in front of her and bellows something in a different tongue. The corpse shambles closer, its stagger more pronounced now that it has a target. She pulls a little on her store of arcane and reaches out with her mind to see if she has any control over the undead here. Nothing. Its head is as blank as the Scourge. She puts it down with a single arrow to its empty head, the draw just hard enough to put the arrow through without going all the way. The corpse collapses into the muck at their feet, but before she can retrieve her arrow, Vivienne sets the corpse alight. 

“I do not have an unlimited supply of arrows.” She growls out at the waste of both the arrow and her effort at not sending it careening through the softened skull and out into the stagnant water.

The mage just sniffs. “My apologies, I was unaware.”

Sylvanas just rolls her eyes and tucks Deathwhisper under her arm. Vivienne is the Inquisitor’s problem, not hers. If she’s out of arrows before they finish their missions, well she has her daggers. She’ll be safe enough. They trudge on, she and Vivienne making quick work of the undead that rise from the swamp and lurch toward them. Cassandra and Trevelyan see no action until they all reach the crest of a small hill and see a glowing green portal in the valley below. 

“Rift! Cassandra, go pull that rage demon away from us. I’ll focus on the terrors.” Trevelyan barks out, her battle axe already in her hand. As the two warriors run down the hill they are enveloped in shimmering shields. Vivienne’s hands glow like the crystals on her staff as she raises it up and brings it crashing to the earth, lightning streaking from it to strike enemies below. 

“Will we face worse?” She doesn’t know to charge this arrow with arcane, or just shoot. “I only have enough energy to charge one shot.”

Vivienne shakes her head. “Do not waste it on them. There may be worse on the second wave.”

So she just shoots at whatever the women below her engage with, Vivienne healing and shielding with the occasional lightning bolt or fireball. ‘ _ Trevelyan and Cassandra are formidable fighters.’  _ She thinks as she lines up her next shot, impressed at their fearlessness and strength. She’s used half of her arrows but they only have the rage demon left, and it’s fading fast. The Inquisitor swings her axe in a huge arc and almost cuts it in two. She lowers her bow but Vivienne shakes her head.

“Look sharp, second wave!”

The three new foes materialize from different points connected to the rift. Cassandra shouts a warning, and from Vivienne’s gasp, she knows it’s not good.

“Revenant! Vivienne, fire!”

The figure that materializes is larger than Iron Bull, with a sword and shield that rival Cassandra’s. The winged helmet gives it a sin’dorei profile and she hesitates a moment.

“What is that?!”

“A corpse possessed by a powerful demon. They are strong and they have a pull. Charge your shot.” Vivienne’s eyes are wide with fear, arcane swirling around her hands as she shields the warriors again.

Sylvanas runs off to the side, trying to get behind the creature. She shoots the two smaller demons --Terrors, like from the first wave-- and crouches down behind the glowing rift to get a better shot. The Revenant moves quickly, slashing at Cassandra while throwing its shield out against the Inquisitor. They both are starting to look worse for wear; blood sheets down Cassandra’s face from a gash on her forehead and Trevelyan looks to have a broken nose. Before she can line up the shot and charge it, the creature blinks across the valley and pulls Vivienne to it. The mage throws a wall of fire between them, and scrabbles at the tufts of grass to get back up the hill. Vivienne’s not going to make it up, and the other two women cannot get over there in time. As she peers down the arrow, she can hear Cassandra try to taunt the monster into turning away from the mage. It doesn’t even flinch. All sound pinpoints down to a hum and Sylvanas pushes arcane out to curl around the arrowhead. She knows it’s not enough to kill the creature, but she will have its attention.

As soon as the arrow launches from her bow, she drops it and starts running toward the beast. The arrow pierces its armor, but doesn’t go clear through. With the last of her arcane, she moves her hand in a downward motion and a purple chain forms from the arrow to the ground, preventing it from moving and reducing its range of motion. The Revenant bellows in anger and turns, reaching out with a gauntleted hand to pull the Inquisitor to it. She blocks its first swing with the head of her axe, but is driven to her knee. 

Sylvanas can hear Cassandra yelling behind her as she, too, tries to run to Trevelyan’s defense. Ten more feet and she’ll be able to slit its throat. She pulls the dagger from its sheath on her belt and throws it, but the monster smacks it away with its shield. Trevelyan hacks at its legs, and manages to catch another sword swing that would have separated her arm from her body on the haft of her axe. Sylvanas jumps, reaching for both stilettos in her boots. The Revenant’s sword is locked with the Inquisitor’s axe so it raises its shield at her advance. She uses the shield like a springboard, going up and over the monster and landing behind it on her feet. Before it can turn she crosses the daggers and with a shout, severs its head from its shoulders. The body collapses, leaning against the shield at an odd angle.  _ Anar’alah... _

Trevelyan lays back on the ground with a grunt, breathing heavily. Cassandra drops to her knees next to the other woman, shaking hands pulling at her gauntlets. She tugs off the Inquisitor’s helmet and pushes her so that she is on her side and the weight of her armor isn’t pushing on her chest. “I am sorry, my Lady, but you still need to close the rift.”

The Inquisitor just groans and, with Cassandra’s help, gets into a sitting position. She holds her hand out toward the glowing green portal and a beam of light shoots between the two. Her arm shakes and she braces it with the other until the rift implodes in a burst of light. A rustle of fabric makes her ears flick, and Sylvanas watches Vivienne hand both women phials of healing potion. The mage turns to hand her one as well, but she shakes her head, rising to go retrieve her bow where she dropped it. Trevelyan calls after her.

“I am indebted to you.” The woman hesitates, clearly trying to think of what to call her, Demon decidedly too rude for someone who has just saved her life. “Sylvanas. I have given you no reason to save me.”

She doesn’t turn to look back at the woman addressing her. She can imagine her face, screwed up at the bitter taste those words leave in her mouth. Sylvanas would feel much the same, in fact, she did, a month ago, when she sat next to the woman who tried to kill her but was her only way home. Pride is one of the few things Sylvanas can still taste and it is bitter going down.

She picks up her bow and replies offhandedly, “Don’t worry, I’ll collect one day.”

While Cassandra and the Inquisitor sit for a minute to allow the potions their maximum effect, she walks around the valley picking up any arrows she can find and stowing them away in her quiver. Once everyone is ready, they continue southwest trudging through mud and mire. She doesn’t speak unless spoken to, idle chit chat has never been her thing, and they seem to forget about her as she trails behind them. Two hours into their march to the keep at the other end of the territory, Vivienne has chattered enough for all four of them. 

“You know, Cassandra, you really ought to have armor with gilding. Or dragon scales. Preferably both.”

The Seeker is as frugal with her words as she is with her movements. Nothing is wasted. “Would that not be impractical?”

Vivienne isn’t deterred. “It would be dramatic, my dear. Half the value of armor is intimidation.”

“I prefer the half that keeps blades out of my innards, personally.”

Sylvanas snorts before she can stop herself and Cassandra’s dark head turns to offer her a conspiratorial smirk. Vivienne harrumphs and sulks until the walls of the crumbling keep appear in the gloom of fog. 

The Avvar don’t put up much resistance and the Inquisitor beats the Hand of Korth, mastermind of the kidnapping, in less time than it took Sylvanas to unhook her bow from her back. The shaman of the tribe, Amund, meets them at the keep’s gate, eyes on the body.

“There lies the brat. His father, chief of our holding, would duel me for the loss if he cared enough.”

“The Inquisition has a purpose your chief lacks. Join me, help us stop the breech.” Trevelyan’s fervor compels, there is no wondering why Skyhold is approached daily with new additions.

“Is that why the Lady of the Skies sent me here? To help heal the wounds in her skin?” Amund shifts his warhammer onto his shoulder, his eyes keen behind his visored helm.

Vivienne looks at him with disdain. “Who?”

"I'm talking about the Lady of the Skies. Do you not know her? Can't you see the warnings she writes through the bird flocks in the air?"

"Preposterous superstition."

"Preposterous is what you wore to a bog, Orlesian." 

Cassandra coughs to hide a bark of laughter, and Sylvanas cannot keep the wry smile off her face. Vivienne looks like she’s eaten a lemon. He peers at each one of them in turn before he turns back to the Inquisitor.

“Fine, I’ll join you. Let me make peace with my kin and I’ll find where you set your flag.”

The rest of the mission is a blur. Trevelyan kills the apostate, Widris, without so much as an offer to return to the circle. Sylvanas refuses to fire a single arrow. She could see in the Inquisitor’s posture that Widris would not be given the option to return and the only thing that came to mind as they killed her were resolute blue eyes and gold-streaked white hair. Is this how Baine felt when she raised Derek Proudmoore? She feels dirty.

Their travel back was silent and efficient. Even Vivienne said little, sitting in contemplative silence on her horse and, when they stopped to camp, near the fire. Sylvanas stays near Talah, the undead animal’s quasi-affection a small comfort as she broods over her role in assisting a zealot. As the moon hangs high in the sky, they cross the arching walkway into Skyhold, and the only thing on her mind is getting to Jaina as quickly as she can. She leaves Talah with Master Dennet and practically flies through the keep, taking the stairs two at a time until she is standing in front of the mage’s door. 

_ She is undoubtedly sleeping. You can wait until morning _ . She chides herself for her impatience, frowning at the compulsion to put her hands on the warm silk of Jaina’s skin. She steps from the door but her ears twitch at a pained whimper and low cry that comes through the oak. 

_ Nightmares _ . 

It would be a kindness to wake her, but kindness something with which Sylvanas is woefully unfamiliar. She bargains with herself: she will wait a few minutes and if Jaina does not cry out again, she will go to her own room. She rests her hand lightly against the door, ears swiveling subtly as she listens. It starts as a whimper again, but scales quickly to end in a shriek. She shoves through the door and sees Jaina sitting up, covers bunched around her hips, breathing heavily, eyes wide but unseeing. She walks slowly toward the bed, unsure if the other woman has enough mana to frostbolt her to true death.

“Proudmoore.” She holds her hands up in front of her just in case the other woman can actually see her. “Jaina, shhh. Wake up.”

The mage blinks rapidly, the sleep slipping from her eyes as they well up and her face crumbles. She holds out her arms like a child looking for comfort. Sylvanas moves to the bed, cursing her armor and gauntlets as she pulls Jaina against her. She manages to work off one glove then the other, shifting the other woman back and forth in her arms. She slips one of her hands into Jaina’s hair, nails softly scratching her scalp. “You’re alright. It was a dream. You’re alright.”

Jaina’s breathing slows and she stops clinging so tightly to her waist. Sylvanas gently pushes her up and looks her over, eyes roaming over Jaina’s pale face. “Can I touch you? I don’t have my gloves on.”

Jaina nods, eyes slipping closed as Sylvanas cups her face and wipes away the dampness on her freckled cheeks, arcane humming between them. The mage turns her head to nuzzle into one of her hands, lips brushing against her palm. Sylvanas still doesn’t think the other woman is fully awake; it would explain her actions. Jaina mumbles something but the words are lost against her hand. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I said, stay here with me please?”

She is speechless for a moment; her first instinct is to protest. Then Jaina tightens her arms around her waist and gives a shuddering sigh. “I haven’t slept well since the carriage ride to the Winter Palace and almost not at all since you’ve been gone. Please, even if just for tonight.”

How can she refuse?

“Let me get out of my armor. I will return shortly.”

She goes back to her room and strips out of her boots, mail, and breastplate, then throws on a cotton tunic and pads back to Jaina’s room on bare feet. The mage has moved over to give her room on the bed. She sits down gingerly and moves so that her back is against the headboard where she waits for Jaina to truly wake and scream at her to get out. It doesn’t happen, but what does tightens her chest and warms her belly. 

Jaina curls sideways like she did in the carriage, lifting her head and stuffing her pillow onto Sylvanas’s lap. She lays down with another sigh, this one tinged with relief. Sylvanas rests one hand on her neck, thumb moving gently along the nape while maintaining their connection. She combs through Jaina’s hair with the other. The mage is asleep before she can pull her fingers through a second time, her slow, steady breathing fills Sylvanas’s ears like music. For the first time since they landed in this cursed land, she lets herself fully relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your consistent encouragement and support!  
> We love hearing from you.  
> ♥


	11. Chicken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh remote teaching is so awful! It takes a 10 hour day and stretches it to 12-14 hours. There simply isn't enough time in a day!
> 
> While we were hoping to leave chapter buffers, posting this one runs us out of buffers. Your patience, support, and readership mean the world to us. ♥
> 
> This chapter doesn't progress the plot, it gives a little of what happens in Skyhold while Sylv is gone with the Inquisitor.  
> We hope you enjoy!

Five to seven days. 

It shouldn’t send her hand to her pendant, yet here she is, rubbing the smooth, cool surface of the anchor, sitting along the archery range while Sylvanas packs for the Fallow Mire mission back in her room. It’s not like she even has anything to pack. Sylvanas doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink; she prefers her armor over comfortable clothes. They have been given precious little extra -smallclothes, socks, a couple of spare pairs of leggings and tunics- and what Sylvanas will take of that she could fit in her pocket. 

Five to seven days. Just a week. 

If she could figure out why this is bothering her, she could make it stop. It’s not like she’s going to actually miss Sylvanas. It’s surely just the arcane access that she’ll be missing. This is obviously some sort of game they are unwittingly playing together, running toward one another at full speed and see who turns their trajectory first: Sylvanas caresses her face with a tenderness Jaina never thought her capable, then openly flirts with her while discussing her clothing choices. Jaina curls into the elf’s lap to sleep in front of the Inquisition’s spymaster, and runs her fingers across the cool, smooth skin of Sylvanas’s bare back on the archery range. 

What are they doing?

“Would you like to spar, my Lady?” Krem approaches with a bashful smile on his face, his hands tucked behind his back.. “Iron Bull told me you’ve learned fancy swordwork at court. I thought you’d like to practice a little of it?”

She startles from her thoughts then smiles at his shy invitation. Over the past few weeks they had gotten to know Bull’s Chargers pretty well, at least the ones that wanted to be known. Dalish, Rocky, Stitches, and Krem frequently accompanied Bull on those first outings, before they were free, laughing and joking with Sylvanas about ranger life. Jaina was on the outside of those conversations. While she’s seen plenty of war, she’s never lived the rigid, disciplined life of a soldier. Seeing this completely different side of Sylvanas fascinates her. The elf talks to Bull and Krem and Dalish with an animation and amicality that Jaina has never seen before, and isn’t quite yet extended to her. 

_ Yet _ . 

She finds that she wants this banter with Sylvanas. While they are comfortable enough with each other now, there is still something missing, and she has no idea how to get it. She jumps again as Krem clears his throat, nervous confusion replacing his initial timidity. “My Lady?”

“Jaina, it’s just Jaina, and I’m sorry! My mind is wandering today. It’s been quite a week so far and I’m still adjusting. I do think I will have to pass on the bladework today, at least as a participant. It’s been ages since I’ve actually used a sword. That, plus being this distracted, is a recipe for disaster.”

His smile is still radiant. “Maybe later then...Jaina.” He offers her a sweeping bow then jogs off to the sparring pit, leaving her to follow behind slowly. She can brood on whatever this is that is bothering her while watching Bull and his crew mess around in the pit.

By the time she makes it to the edge, there is a small ring of Inquisition soldiers around the fighters, stomping their feet and shouting out bets. Bull and Krem circle one another, the former’s two-handed sword raised high and the latter with a smaller sword and shield held close in a more defensive position. Without warning, Iron Bull bellows and swings his blade hard enough to kill. She gasps as Krem throws himself forward into the blow, shield crashing against Bull’s chest. The Qunari barely moves but to shove him back with a burst of laughter.

“Now that’s what I call a shield bash! You almost knocked the wind out of me that time.”

They circle slowly, both breathing hard, although Bull doesn’t let it stop him from talking. “Watch your left, you’re holding that shield out too far and leaving an opening.”

Krem’s eyes flick over to Jaina for a second before settling back on his opponent. He puffs out his chest and juts his chin in challenge. “It’s not, old man, at least not far enough that you’d be able to take advantage of it.”

The taunt draws oohs and whoops from the soldiers watching. Jaina sees Stitches, the Charger’s medic, shake his head. Iron Bull’s eyes glint and he snorts, his deadly blade catching the light for a moment, before, quick as an adder, he charges forward with a shout. Krem holds his ground, jaw set and eyes determined, and when Bull is about to make contact, Krem steps into the charge and locks his shield up and around the extended blade. Then he deftly pivots, letting Bull’s momentum carry the larger man past where Krem was standing. He smacks the flat of his blade behind Bull’s knees, in what would have been a crippling blow. 

“Parshaara!” Bull shouts, part laugh, part order, “Enough! That was well fought and I’d have been hamstrung on the ground, ready for death. You have reminded me to keep a level head and to be more patient.”

Krem grins and brings his hand to his heart in a salut. “And you have reminded me to remain steadfast despite the pants-shitting fear of being run through by a charging Qunari.”

Bull roars with laughter again, clapping a massive hand on Krem’s shoulder that the Charger proudly endures with only a slight grimace. Now that the fight is over, the ring of spectators dissipates, each soldier off to whatever duty or training currently assigned and Jaina finds herself trailing after Bull and Krem out of habit as they go clean their armor and weapons. She speeds up to walk next to them and the silence, contemplative and companionable, shifts into something else the moment she is abreast of them. 

“So what can  _ you _ do, Lady?” Bull doesn’t turn to look at her, but she catches Krem stealing glances at her from the corner of his eye. “Your demon is a most extraordinary shot, and it seemed like there was a bit more than arrows involved there at the end.”

She recognizes the slight tingling in her chest for what it is - pride. She is proud of Sylvanas’s performance at the range this morning. “Don’t call her a demon, please, Bull, and yes, she is impressive with a bow.” 

She shivers slightly, remembering Sylvanas at Lordaeron, single-handedly taking out a siege machine and then downing a small cohort of soldiers with mist and wail, rallying her faction with her shouted ‘ _ For the Horde _ .’ She tries not to think about the reaction of those same soldiers when Sylvanas killed Saurfang, then proclaimed them nothing to her. “And that is, by far, not all she can do, were she to have her full powers.”

She realizes they’ve stopped in front of the Herald’s Rest. She turns and smiles at Lace Harding before pushing through the door behind the other two men and following them back to their corner of the tavern. The dwarf scout had been one of the first people outside of the Inquisitor’s immediate circle to greet her and Sylvanas whenever she saw them. What anyone else would call a mundane interaction meant a lot to her at that time, grounding her and returning her humanity. Jaina doubts she’ll have the opportunity to actually tell Lace what those greetings meant to her at the beginning, but she can continue to show her appreciation whenever they see one another.

She slides into the open seat between Bull and Krem, catching another flick of the younger man’s eyes on her. He smiles and ducks his head, his cheeks turning a warm rose color and suddenly it hits her: the invitation to spar, his bashful approaches, all these little glances her way… No, surely he’s just being friendly? 

She’s at least  _ fifteen years _ his senior, and it has been so long since anyone took an interest in  _ her _ and not just her abilities that she isn’t sure. She has treated him like Anduin, returning his shy interactions with affection. His sweet earnestness reminds her so much of her adopted nephew, so much of Azeroth that she didn’t think of how he would interpret her smiles and encouragement. Has he confused her affection with attraction? She’s running through possible things to say to let him know her interest is purely platonic when the barmaid arrives.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Bull reminds her as he orders ale and food for the table. “I have a feeling the bas saarebas is as impressive in her own right.”

She straightens to sit up as tall as she can. “I can hold my own.”

Bull just looks at her, leaning back from the table as their food and drinks arrive. “I have no doubt, my Lady, but what is it that you can do? Dorian dabbles in necromancy, Solas heals and shields, Vivienne commands fire and electricity. Do you harness the weather? Alter time?”

She takes a sip of the ale, grimacing slightly at its bitter bite and room temperature. It doesn’t have the pleasing body of a frosty Kul Tiran tripel, nor the fortifying burn of a shot of Corlain Estate 12 Year, but chilling it will make it more palatable. With a thread of the mana she has spooled inside of her she cools the liquid in the stein and takes another drink, sucking the foam off her upper lip in satisfaction.  _ Much better. _

“In Azeroth, I was archmage of the Kirin Tor. To be named archmage I had to be able to cast arcane spells plus spells from at least five of the other schools of magic like fire, nature, or shadow. My specialization is frost magic, but I consider myself proficient in the arcane as well.”

Krem looks at her over his mug. “Lady Sylvanas said you flew a battleship across a continent to rescue your king. With all due respect, that sounds a bit more than proficient.”

Her cheeks warm and her father’s words rush back to her.  _ False modesty is as bad as false pride. Know exactly what you are capable of at any moment, and act accordingly. Any other path is folly—and could be deadly in battle. _ “Funny that she would tell you that story, since I was rescuing my king from her.” He shrugs and takes another drink.

Idly wiping the condensation from the sides of her mug, she sighs. “Alright, I’m more than proficient.” She takes another slow sip, in a vain effort to steady herself and swallow down the shame that threatens to rise. “I can levitate battleships, blink entire armies from one place to another, and with a little focusing assistance, I almost drowned the capital city of the Horde with a tidal wave the size of a mountain. But, and it’s a big but...” 

When she looks up both men are looking at her with rapt attention. “I don’t know if I can be that Jaina Proudmoore here. Those things that I told you about, they required enormous amounts of arcane energy, and I don’t know how to tap into the ambient energy here in Thedas.”  _ And they also required my fury, my hatred, my desire to hurt someone as much as I’d been hurt.  _ She traces the wet ring on the table where her mug sat, pulling in a slow, measured breath.

“How did you help Sylvanas?” Iron Bull drains his mug and waves it in the air, signalling for another. He pushes the plate of cheese and sliced sausages towards her with a meaningful look. “There at the end of the training. You were helping her somehow. She never missed a shot prior, but nothing exploded and those first two arrows are still embedded into solid stone.”

And here it is, what she’s been worried about since they discovered their connection. The Inquisitor doesn’t know that Jaina has access to her powers again; she might not be so eager to leave her unsupervised. She knows Bull, his Chargers, Dorian, Solas, and even maybe Leliana are her friends--their friends--but that’s because up until recently they had thought them powerless. Sylvanas reminds her repeatedly that her arcane signature is stronger than virtually all the other mages, Solas and Morrigan being her only equals. She wonders if Solas can sense arcane like Sylvanas can. It is possible they all already know, so her telling them here, now, may not be such a revelation.

“There is something that happens when we touch. Like…” She tries to articulate exactly what happens, but the intimacy of it leaves her blushing and fumbling for words. “We can convert the energy here into something usable for each other, somehow.”

“Then why did you come here to Skyhold if you could already access your powers? Why didn’t you heal yourself? Free yourselves from the cell? Strike down those that hurt you?”

“We didn’t know we could do that then. We have to be touching, skin to skin. Sylvanas is the leader of the Horde, the Alliance’s greatest threat on Azeroth, except for maybe Azshara or N’Zoth. It’s not as if we were friends or lovers, to have reason to touch one another.” Her voice catches on the word lovers, and she pauses to clear her throat. “We figured it out that first day you came and brought us here to the tavern. Sylvanas had noticed something when she set my wrist and asked to test her theory.”

“That sounds...awkward.”

Krem ducks behind his drink, obviously not intending to say that aloud, and she grins before replying. “It was certainly something. It would be like being imprisoned with Corypheus while injured and needing to hold hands with him to cast a spell.” 

Bull roars with laughter before he tilts his head toward her. “I saw what you did to your ale, and Sylvanas isn’t here. How did you cast that spell?”

More secrets, but at this point why keep them close? Her hesitation lasts only a second. “We’ve been practicing for weeks since we found out what we can do. I’ve been trying to cache the mana.” She frowns at the difficulty in explaining exactly what she does with the energy. “It’s almost like a thread between us that can be pulled back and forth. When we touch, I collect as much as I can to hold for later. Like spinning almost, winding the thread around a spindle. What I did to the ale required very little energy. I would need a hundred times that to create a portal or hold a blizzard. Spells of that magnitude would need me to be touching Sylvanas while casting them so I could use her as a conduit.” She shrugs and nibbles on a triangle of cheese from the plate, “At least right now. I don’t know, we’ve not practiced offensive magic since we were prisoners. It might be that, at some point, I’ll be able to store enough by myself.”

She spins in her seat at the raucous shouting from the door behind her. The rest of the Chargers have cleaned up and are ready to take up their regular posts in the tavern. Krem drains his glass and stands, nodding once to Bull in thanks for the drink and lunch. Then he turns to her with a blush high on his cheeks, gently takes her hand, and presses a light kiss to her fingers. “Jaina.” She can only stare, open-mouthed, after him when he goes.

“He’s quite enamored with you, if you haven’t noticed. I told him you’re already taken, but he doesn’t seem deterred.” Bull chuckles and shakes his head slowly. “He’s a fighter though, since before he joined the company. That’s how I lost my eye.”

There is so much to unpack in that statement that she doesn’t know where to start. “Taken _... _ wait you lost your eye to Krem?”

“No, to a Tevinter tribune’s flail. They considered him a deserter. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, and I know a good soldier when I see one, so I intervened.”

“Why did he desert?”

“That’s not my story to tell.” He pushes back from the table to lean his chair against the wall behind him. She gets the distinct impression that he’s done talking for the day. “Let him down gently, please, and soon. I don’t want to lose another eye. Your demon is a hell of a shot.”

The odd mention of Sylvanas snaps her eyes up to his, and she feels her cheeks pink at the look he’s leveling at her. “I should go say goodbye.” 

Her eyebrows furrow at his sly grin at her words. “Tell her I’m looking forward to working with her.” Then he winks and shouts out to the barkeep asking what the hold up is on his ale.

She snatches another slice of cheese as she gets up, waves at the Chargers, heads out the door and all the way across the courtyard to the stables. Worry creases her forehead again as she thinks about how Sylvanas is going to travel. As far as she knows, living animals are rather skittish around the undead. It’s possible that Sylvanas could raise a mount here, with her channeling mana, but then what would she do to get home? 

Sylvanas’s wry grin greets her as she crosses under the arch to the stables. She sits high atop one of the most horrific things that Jaina has seen since waking in this wretched place. Even the human-handed rabbit creatures aren’t as off-putting. But Sylvanas is smiling, and she is so beautiful with her relaxed posture and softened eyes that Jaina will not shy away from the terrifying beast for fear it will wipe the obvious delight from Sylvanas’s face.  _ Tides, I hope it has a better disposition than its rider. _

“Come see my horse!” 

Jaina snorts behind her hand as she approaches, but it’s impossible not to return Sylvanas’s smile; the elf is almost bouncing in the saddle. The Inquisitor, Grand Enchanter Vivienne, and Cassandra secure packs and bedrolls and other notions to their mounts away from them. It seems that no one really wants to be too close to Sylvanas and her horse, Jaina included, but she tamps down her own terror and gets close enough to see the rust pattern on the sword running through the poor beast’s skull. She’s never seen Sylvanas like this, practically ebullient on her nightmare mount, and she realizes she’d pet the thing if Sylvanas asked, just to see that grin stay on her face. Sylvanas leans down to whisper conspiratorially. 

“It’s called a bog unicorn and Trevelyan  _ hates _ that I’m not insulted by her assigning it to me. Why would I be when everyone is terrified of it?” Her ears are up and her grin shows both fangs and Jaina is stunned by a sudden urge to kiss her. The Forsaken Queen.  _ The Warchief of the Horde _ . She’s almost dizzy at the thought. 

“Are you alright?” Sylvanas undoubtedly notices that her cheeks are aflame. She stammers, searching for a reasonable excuse to be blushing when she hears the familiar creak of leather and armor behind her as the three other women mount up. Rescued by her jailors, how convenient.

“Take off your gauntlet and give me your hand. Remember, take as much as you possibly can, and try to hold it.” 

Sylvanas tugs off her glove and holds out her hand and Jaina tangles their fingers together, drawing a hissing breath at Sylvanas’s immediate pull. Red eyes meet hers in apology, but neither lets go. “Save it for when you need it. Be careful, please.”  _ Come back so I’m not alone. _

“Why Lord Admiral, it sounds like you might be worried for me.” Sylvanas drawls, and the strange feeling in her chest is quashed by a flare of indignation. She shoves as much arcane as she can, smirking as Sylvanas’s eyes flutter a moment before yanking her hand away. She feels the heat in her cheeks at the elf’s smug grin.

Sylvanas pulls her gauntlet on as she wheels the horse around, falling in line behind Vivienne. Jaina walks far enough that she can see as they ride through the courtyard, through the throng of people waving and shouting blessings, then through the gate. Just before she is out of sight, Sylvanas turns and Jaina raises her hand in a little wave that the elf solemnly returns.

s§s

She manages to make the spooled mana last for four days; the comfort she draws from its whitebright sharpness soothes enough that she sleeps fitfully instead of not at all. The nightmares she always suffers are more intense when she aches for arcane. Sylvanas should be back by tomorrow, so she need only suffer a night without sleeping.

It is a bit disconcerting, she thinks as she walks towards the garden courtyard, that she slept so well in the cell when she knew Sylvanas was near. Now that she’s alone, she barely gets three solid hours a night. She’d attributed her initial improvement to having access to arcane, but this past week is evidence that her theory is full of elf-shaped holes. She didn’t sleep well in Azeroth, and mana was ambient. The stress of constant war, her responsibilities to the Alliance and to Kul Tiras, and her wretched history of always choosing wrong: Theramore, Dalaran, Arthas, weighed heavily in her dreams even when she had constant access to the arcane.

If she’s ever to sleep, Sylvanas needs to be in the room. She presses her hands to her flaming cheeks as she imagines how this conversation would go. She’ll ask and Sylvanas will tease and mock her, then pointedly refuse just as a torment. At this point, she thinks she’ll actually beg. Sleep deprivation leads to intrusive thoughts and dreams that she’d rather not acknowledge right now, and she can’t afford how it rounds her edges and dulls her mind.

“You look troubled.”

She starts and discovers she’s made it to her destination only to be standing in the middle of the garden with her hands on her frowning face like a fool. She drops her her arms to her sides and turns towards the voice, undoubtedly the person she is here to see anyway. 

Initially, Jaina was hesitant to go about the keep in anything less than full battle garb. She takes the time to lace up into her sleeves, to belt on both sets of skirts over her legging, and to don the caplet-style jacket with her cloak, foregoing only her pauldron and gauntlet. One look at the woman in front of her and she decides she’ll shed a few layers tomorrow. 

“My Lady…” She fumbles a minute as she realizes Leliana never gave them more than a given name.

The answering laugh is deep and rich and she is sure that the blood in her face will never go back to wherever it goes when she’s not blushing. It doesn’t help when gold eyes rake across her flushed face and ruby lips twist into a sardonic smile.

“I’m no lady, so no need to bother with a title. Morrigan will suffice.” 

She just nods. “Morrigan it is, then.”

She fidgets with her necklace a moment before taking a deep breath. “We are hoping you can help us.”

“You and your demon?” Morrigan manages to sound disinterested, but the raised eyebrow and sparkle in her eyes belie her tone.

Jaina looks around the courtyard and, seeing no one, steps closer to the other woman, voice lowered but firm. “She’s not a demon, as I’m sure you know. You and Leliana are thick as thieves, so I’m sure she’s told you as much. I’m also sure you‘ve met the Inquisitor and understand why we continue the charade.” 

Morrigan’s eyes narrow but a smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth. She tips her head toward the nearby gazebo. “Shall we talk then? Unfortunately, I believe Sister Nightingale is currently occupied in the rookery.”

“I’m here to talk to you. Solas is busy and Sylvanas said only him or you would be worth the effort.” She explains as she steps onto the wooden platform and drops, rather ungracefully, to a wooden bench. She itches for arcane, or Sylvanas’s soft, cool skin, the thought of which drag her mind back to the flexed muscles of the elf’s shoulders and back. She closes her eyes and clenches her teeth, hissing out an exasperated sigh.

Morrigan just waits, yellow eyes unabashedly studying her, the corners of her lips almost smugly tipped up. Jaina rolls her eyes for a moment, the similarities between the witch’s and Sylvanas’s vexing caught-canary look are uncanny. They both also armor themselves in impassive masks, that perpetual antipathy difficult to chip away . That is, until Jaina describes her experience with Thedosan magic. Then suddenly, that golden gaze is focused and she has question after question for Jaina. They talk through most of the afternoon, Morrigan not losing an ounce of her acerbic wit but obviously  _ listening _ to Jaina. 

She still knows next to nothing about the other woman, but she’s sure the apostate has her reasons for keeping her cards close. Morrigan tips her hand only once, referring to the Inquisition’s spymaster as Leli in a passing comment- but Jaina has the wherewithal to act as if she doesn’t notice. It’s not like she’s oblivious; they might not have been outwardly demonstrative, but the eye-fucking in the carriage was something to behold. Jaina hopes Morrigan’s involvement with Leliana offers her some protection from the Inquisitor much like Leliana’s friendship with Jaina provides.

The sun is hanging low in the sky when Leliana appears at the gazebo steps. She smiles at the both of them, but her sharp blue eyes soften with affection when her attention turns to Morrigan. “Trouble, sans doute. What are you two up to?”

“Oh, you know, magic business.” Jaina winks, then sobers a bit thinking about how a discussion about magic probably puts Morrigan in a precarious position. She’s still not sure she understands why the woman wasn’t killed on sight, much less accepted into the Inquisition, but that’s a conversation for another day. “Although we couldn’t get anything accomplished. I’ll come back tomorrow. Sylvanas should be back late tonight or early tomorrow morning so we can do a demonstration. Thank you for talking with me today.”

She departs with a little wave but the other two women have eyes for each other only; their distracted goodbyes rushed. Regardless, she smiles to herself on the way through the keep to her room. The friends that she makes here in Thedas like her for who she is, not what she can bring to the table. They listen to her. They ask questions about her and her life before. She’s always had Anduin’s friendship, and somewhat by extension, Valeera’s. Vereesa has been by her side for years, but that’s it. Everyone else has wanted to ally with her, wanted to fuck her, or required her help. Once it’s received, they’re off on their next quest. She sighs, passing through the small group of people eating in the keep as she makes her way to her room.

She dreads nightfall and the necessity of sleep. Her nightmares of late have been different than those that plagued her in Azeroth, but she’s as sleep deprived as she normally is. Usually, Daelin curses her as he dies in her arms, instead now, her hands are black with ichor and Sylvanas’s eyes look at her traitorous face in shock and pain. Sometimes, instead of her mother, cold-eyed and stern, ordering her execution, it’s Sylvanas, haughty mask in place and lip curled in disdain. Lately, Sylvanas has featured in most of her dreams and while the majority of them rip her, screaming from sleep and in a cold sweat, there have been a couple that rouse her for more shocking and confusing reasons. The small fire on the hearth crackles as she turns down her bed and climbs in, already anxious about how the rest of the night will go. 


End file.
